To Protect and To Serve
by Angyliadd
Summary: WARNING: ARYA/TYWIN ROMANCE - ARYA IS AGED, BUT STILL A TEEN W/EXACT AGE UNSPECIFIED. SHE IS NOT MEANT TO BE A CHILD, BUT AGE APPROPRIATE IN THE SETTING. NEITHER IS TYWIN MEANT TO BE DECREPIT. Love is a choice. It does not simply "happen." Arya remains in Tywin Lannister's service, having saved him from Tyrion's assassination attempt; Tyrion & Sansa have not been seen for months.
1. Chapter 1 Of Discoveries

Chapter One: Of Discoveries

Arya stood quietly in the shadows, waiting and listening. It was all she ever seemed to do, lately – wait… and listen…

She sighed. Four years and more since her father had died, and now they were scattered to the winds. Scattered and gone. Sansa had not been seen in months, having escaped the Red Keep with Tyrion after his failed attempt on Tywin's life; Bran and Rickon, dead at the hands of the betrayer, Theon Grayjoy; Robb and mother, dead for Robb's heart. And Jon – poor Jon, stuck in the North, protected by no one's honor but his own.

Only, Arya knew better. She knew better because Nymeria knew better. Bran and Rickon lived, somewhere – she had met them in dreams, and Jon as well. If only Lady were still alive, they could find Sansa.

The Lannisters thought they had crushed the Starks, but the Starks were not so easily disposed of. Their day would come, and they would return – not only to Winterfell, but to King's Landing. Until then, Arya was the one closest to the heart of their troubles; as Tywin's cup bearer, she was the only Stark who still remained near the seat of power. So she would wait, and she would listen.

_If only it weren't so damned boring all the time,_ she thought. _Might as well be stuck in a chamber somewhere doing needlepoint, for all the use I've been here._

"Girl! More wine," Tywin demanded.

"Yes, my Lord," Arya replied, and stepped forward to pour. Tywin's cup needed cleaning; they had been locked up in the council room for days, now, discussing the Targaryan girl's movements, and Tywin's cup had been full and in his hand nearly the whole time. Truthfully, if Arya had not taken to watering the wine, Tywin would be too drunk to think.

_Why do I even care?_ Arya thought, for what must have been the millionth time. _He's a Lannister – a damn Lannister! I should have let him die._

For it had been Arya who had found Tywin after Tyrion's bolt thrummed through his body, Arya who cleansed the wound in an ironic use of the wine Tywin demanded so regularly, and Arya who had brought the Grand Maester to Tywin's side. _I'd knight you, girl,_ he'd said when finally he had recovered from the infection that raged through him after,_but as it is, that makes little sense. Nevertheless, I shall see you cared for properly; in the meantime, continue your duties, and let me think._

That had been a year before. She was – could have been – a lady by now, had things gone differently; certainly, she was a woman. But she had never cared for labels or the many useless trifles of the female nobility. Here, at least, she could see what was happening.

Tywin walked around to the long edge of the map. He glanced up at Rodel, the new commander in charge of the Lannister's northern forces. "How many wildlings did you say were coming? Twenty thousand?"

"Yes, my Lord Lannister; at least, those are the reports. Myself, I believe these northerners exaggerate every number they hear."

"Fool," Tywin responded, focusing once more on the map before him. "If anything, they underestimate, and know that they are doing so. They occasionally under-report for morale, but expect many times what is reported in their preparations. But more often, their estimates are within a sand's grain of the truth." He took a large swallow. His personal crest marked the cup, but was becoming so smudged that it was difficult to see, now.

"Do we have anyone who can reliably report on the Targaryan girl's so-called dragons? What are they - lizards? Snakes that the Qarthi warlocks have altered?"

Another of the Lannister militia stepped forward, resplendent in gold and scarlet armor. "Yes, my Lord Lannister; I returned from the Southern Lands myself two nights ago. I was in Meereen when she took the city. I saw the dragons myself; there are three. They are still young, my Lord, but are large enough to be feared."

"Mm. So you say. Does she ride them?"

"I have not seen this, my Lord; but if they were not large enough to permit riding when I left, they certainly are by now," the soldier reported.

Tywin reached again for his cup, which glittered in the torchlight.

_It… glitters?_

"No! My Lord, no!" Arya leapt, shoving Tywin aside and knocking him to the ground before he could reach the cup. "Guards, lock the doors!"

The guards jumped in confusion, some moving to block the doors, others running to their Lord's side, still others milling about uncertainly.

Arya stood, pale and sweating, by Tywin as he rose. "Do as she says!" he barked. A handful of guards moved to take Arya. "No!" he commanded. He turned to face her, stern and grim in the silence. "Well?"

"That…" Arya stumbled, suddenly uncertain as the entire Council stared. "That is not your cup, my Lord." Her eyes met his. "It has been replaced."

Tywin stiffened and looked to his cup, full despite the many sips he had taken. "Did you see who…"

Arya shook her head. "No, my Lord._" And now, I have saved his life again._

The Council room doors had been closed, but unlocked. Tywin surveyed the room, meeting the eye of each of them in turn. "Ser Meryn – arrange for the questioning of these men. Allow no one to leave until each has been satisfactorily cleared; they may return to their rooms under guard until that time. And have the wine tested."

The Kingsguard knight nodded. "Yes, my Lord Lannister," he said.

"You," Tywin said to Arya, "Come with me."

Tywin led her silently back to his suite. Leaving his guards with instructions not to interrupt them, he brought her to a small, but comfortably furnished, receiving chamber.

"Sit," he said. Then, turning to his sideboard, "What do you prefer, white or red?"

"My Lord…" she began, but he interrupted her.

"It is ill manners to refuse such an offer. I recommend the red."

"As you say, my Lord."

He returned with a pair of goblets, tasting both before her, and then setting them down as he sat. "That is twice, now, that you have saved my life," he said quietly, his voice a low rumble. Arya didn't know what to say.

"I confess, I am intrigued. You have been in my service for – how long is it, now? Three years?"

"Four, my Lord."

He nodded. "Mm. Four. You have had ample opportunities to make attempts on my life in that time. Yet not only have you made no such attempts, you have stood in the way of others doing so."

Arya shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "Why would I... "

"I would like to know why," he interrupted.

_So would I…_ "My Lord, why would I do such a thing?" she asked, trying to look incredulous.

Tywin's green eyes bored into hers as the silence grew uncomfortable between them. When he spoke, it was with quiet deliberation. "Do you take me for a fool?"

"No, My Lord!"

"Then why, Miss Stark, do you persist with this ruse?"

Electric ice shot through Arya, as she thought quickly. "Why do you?" she asked, then realized that he could easily end her for such a statement. _Still, here we are, in his apartments…_

He barked out a quick laugh. "Gods. Is it courage, or stupidity?" he asked, still staring at her, but in a moment, answered his own question. "Well. I have seen enough of you to know that it isn't stupidity." He regarded her for a few seconds more. "Very well; the wolf at your side is more easily watched than the ones in the wood."

The slight disappointment that Arya felt must have shown, despite her attempts to keep her face as unreadable as his. She stared at the wine in her goblet.

"And…" he continued, head tilted as he considered her.

_And?_ Something wild flickered inside her, something that had been there, just out of reach, burning quietly – but still burning – for months. She raised her gaze again to his, noting once again the strength carried in that wordless stare.

"…there are ways, perhaps, in which we both may benefit. Certainly, there weren't when you first entered my household – but you are no longer that child, are you, Miss Stark?"

"No, my Lord," she whispered. _Is he considering what I think he is?_

He stood and walked to her side. Taking her hand confidently but gently in his own, he brought her up to face him. Her heart was racing, galloping so hard that she was sure he must hear it. He took her chin in his two fingers, and raised her lips to his. In that moment, he ceased to be Lord Lannister. He released her hand and pulled her to him, like marble melting as he kissed her.


	2. Chapter 2 Of Propositions and Proposals

Chapter Two: Of Propositions

His lips were on hers, and she was falling. If not for his arm around her, she would have collapsed. After a time that was at once over in the blink of an eye, and longer than winter, he straightened, but held her still.

_Gods,_ she thought. _What am I doing?_

She searched his eyes, looking for something she could not define. They were the eyes of a warrior… a general… _a lion. He is a lion, and I a wolf, and wolves do not lie with lions._

"Mm," he said at last, releasing her. "No; not a child any longer. And yet, what do I do now? Release you? Where would you go? Winterfell is in the hands of the Boltons. Half of the families in Westeros would try to kill you; the other half, capture you. I cannot keep you long in my service; you can be certain that others know your secret, and they wait only for the right customer to buy the information." He walked to the window. "You see the only solution, I am sure; you have been learning tactics at my side for those four years."

"I see three, my Lord, if you wish me to survive."

He turned. "Tyrion? I would wed you to my would-be killer, when you saved me from him? Even if I knew where he was, I hardly consider that a suitable course of action for either of you." Closing the distance once more between them, he gazed down upon her. "Do you wish to wed Jaime?"

_Think,_ she thought. _Consider carefully._ Those lion eyes were watching her again; she was sure he could hear everything she thought. Finally, she met his gaze with the unblinking stare of the wolf to which she had been born. "No, my Lord."

"Then," he said, his breath warm on her cheeks, "you would wed me?" And for the briefest of moments – no more than a heartbeat – the shadow of uncertainty crossed his face. "We could bring the Starks home, Arya."

_Arya,_ she thought. _He called me Arya._ It had been years since someone had used her rightful name, and to hear it now, from him… She nearly laughed, but realized that he was still waiting for her response._ Dignity, _she thought. _Dignity, respect, and honor. Winter may be coming, but it is dignity, respect, and honor that define my House._ "Home?" she asked. "They will not come here, my Lord, not with a Lannister on the throne; and they certainly will not rally around Casterly Rock."

He withdrew a package from a pouch at his belt, and handed it to her. It was a black box, small and hinged, carved with a wolf and lion running – side by side. Arya's breathing became shallow and rapid as she beheld it. She turned narrow eyes up to meet his.

"I needed a reasonable opportunity. Take it," he urged.

She reached out slowly and took the box from his hand. Opening it, she saw a ring of yellow and white gold vines intertwined, set with a ruby and a grey pearl. "It is exquisite," she breathed. He took the ring from the box, and she looked up at him. He quietly took the box from her and set it on the table, reaching for her other hand.

"A Lannister might sit the throne – but a few years' time could set a child of both houses on that same throne."

"And Tommen?"

"Has never wanted to be king, and lost what ambition he had with Cersei's arrest. It is only a matter of time before they name me, and having a Stark by my side could bring an end to the war in Westeros. We could turn attention to the Targaryen at the gates."

_Treason. What he is considering is treason. But – _

"I am no fool, Arya. Nothing will happen until all of the pieces are in the proper positions."

"And I, my Lord? Am I only a piece to be placed?" Her hands trembled in his.

"No. You are the woman I would see as Queen – and as my wife." He tipped her head up again. "Take the ring, Arya. No man knows you better; no man can offer you more."

_Courage. A wolf also has courage – ask._ "Do you love me, my Lord Tywin?"

"Does it matter? Never mind; I know the answer to that. Yes, my Lady, I do. Now, there can be nothing more. I can teach your mind, and free you to pursue what you will. I can protect you; I can love you. I can lead you. Let me."

Arya opened her palm, extending her fingers into his.

The ring felt bulky and unfamiliar as he slid it into place.

"It will take some getting used to, as do all changes. But it will soon feel as though it had always been there," he said quietly, bending to press his lips again to hers. She slipped her hands from his, sliding them up onto his chest while he pulled her close. He nudged her lips apart, and the feel of his tongue shot through her, a spark that left her limp in its wake. His palm felt cool on her cheek as he straightened. "I will get you an appropriate seamstress; perhaps you will not object to a gown for this?"

Arya shook her head. He stepped back and nodded. "Good. We shall have to move quickly, my dear; I guarantee that Varys has already heard the news thrice over. To keep you safe, we shall have to announce your identity and our plans immediately. Do you agree?"

"My Lord…"

"Tywin, Arya. Tywin."

"Tywin, do you think there truly is a danger?"

He simply gazed at her, while she considered. "Who?"

"Any number of them. Whoever Cersei has in her pocket at the moment. Jaime. Tyrion. Varys and Baelish, for whatever reason suits them. Stannis. Gods, even Sansa – well. Perhaps not Sansa. But you see my point."

She nodded, thinking how simple it was to order assassinations of her own. "Yes…" she paused, still thinking. "Then perhaps we shouldn't announce anything until it is done."

"Mm. I considered that, but then, there would always be those decrying the match for its legitimacy. No, I believe it would be better to proceed with all the pomp and fortitude appropriate to our Houses – but soon."

"All right," she said. Her head was swimming. _Fast is one thing, but can I keep up?_

He laid a hand on her shoulder. "Be at peace, my little warrior. When you lie awake thinking things through, you will still agree that this was the only way forward."

She nodded, as his cloak swept up the stairs to exit the chambers. He turned when he reached the top; she stood, still rooted to the spot. "I shall arrange more fitting quarters for you. I would like to make the announcement tonight at supper, if that is agreeable to you."

She glanced up at him. Her mouth had turned to ashes as the dream-like quality of the moment dissipated into a paralyzing reality. _Marriage. To Lord Tywin Lannister. Gods, what in the seven hells am I doing?_ "Yes, my L… Tywin." Taking a deep breath, she continued, steel in her voice. "That would be best. I shall need a gown, but I shall be prepared."

He smiled. "Excellent. I shall see that you have everything you need. Until then," he tipped his head, "my Lady."

And then he was gone, leaving Arya dizzy and nauseated behind him.


	3. Chapter 3 Of Appearances

Chapter Three: Of Appearances

"It is beautiful on you, my Lady," the one called Elien said.

"Truly," agreed the other one.

_What was her name? Anandra?_ "Mm. If you say so," she mumbled noncommittally. The gown they had found was certainly… different… from what she was accustomed to wearing. It was grey, cut tight in the bodice and full in the skirt, with a sheer neckline that nearly made Arya squirm, it was so… _low_. "Are you sure about this? It seems a bit more, um," she gestured to her chest, "_obvious_ than Tywin would prefer."

"My Lady, with all due respect to my Lord Lannister, tonight is not about _him_," Anandra said.

_I doubt he would agree…_ She frowned, examining her reflection in the glass. "At least get me a shawl," she finally said.

"My Lady – " Elien started, but seeing the iron gaze Arya gave her, she dropped into a curtsey. "Yes, my Lady," she said, and turned to leave, as Anandra gathered her hair into a net woven with thread-of-gold and garnets.

"It doesn't match," Arya said as Anandra arranged it into place.

"My Lady, you need some color, and they need to see you embracing their House," she replied.

_Maybe I should wear the red gown after all. In for a copper…_ She laughed quietly to herself. _I suppose I am in for the gold, aren't I?_

"My Lady?"

"Nothing, Anandra. I was just thinking, that's all. Fetch the red one, would you?"

Anandra sighed and nodded.

Arya stood just out of sight behind the column at the balcony's corner, listening. They were just starting the supper service.

_I wonder who his cupbearer is now,_ she thought idly._ Perhaps it will go more smoothly if I come in with a goblet in hand._ She stifled a laugh that sat just at the edge of hysteria.

"Actually," his voice rose from below. "I believe I have found just the solution that will finally bring this miserable war to an end," he said.

"My Lady," Elien whispered, "it is time."

She nodded, as Jaime's voice echoed behind her, "Really, Father? And from which – ah – hiding hole – do you propose to pull this miracle?"

Arya couldn't make out Tywin's response as Elien hurried her down the stairs. In half a heartbeat, she was standing just outside the hall. Then the guard was opening the door. _No time even to be sick,_ she thought. _Courage. Respect, Dignity, Honor, and Courage._ Her back straightened as she pushed her shoulders back and gripped the black shawl they had found for her.

"…Stark," she heard Tywin say, and then she was walking through the door into dead silence.

There were only a handful of people in the hall, fewer than twenty, but it felt like hundreds as she walked to Tywin's side, where an empty chair sat waiting. _Dignity,_ she thought, sweeping the eyes before her with the same look of grim purpose her father had used when passing judgment on men doomed to die.

Varys was the first to recover. He stood and moved with a grace that was surprising – all things considered. "My Lady… Stark," he said, taking her hand and bowing.

"Master Varys," she replied. "It will be a pleasure working with you."

A harsh bark of a laugh erupted from the center of the table. Arya looked; Jaime sat with mouth agape in an incredulous smile. "Arya Stark, you say?" He pushed his chair back roughly; the scrape of wood on stone echoed through the hall. He truly did look leonine as he prowled closer. Giving her an obvious, slow, once over, he finally said, "Yes, I see it, but how old can she possibly be? Eleven? Twelve?"

A biting anger swept through Arya. "'She' is right here, _Ser,_ and quite capable of hearing and answering you on her own; kindly remember your upbringing."

Tywin smiled, tilting his head as he considered Jaime. "And what are you insinuating? Come, let us have no secrets here," he said, extending his hand to Arya.

She stepped forward and took it in her own, eyes never leaving the Kingslayer. _Jaime,_ she corrected._ Not the Kingslayer, not any longer._ "No, my Lord, let me address the question that I am certain they are all harboring – though they may lack the courage to voice it. 'She,' as you call me, is old enough to see the path to victory – for both our Houses." Arya released Tywin's hand and closed the distance between herself and Jaime. Looking him in the eye, she said, "'She' is old enough to do what must be done; and 'she' is old enough to reach for what she wants – and take it." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Is that old enough for you, _Ser_?"

Jaime held her gaze for a moment before a low laugh erupted from Tywin. "Tell me that she cannot hold her own against any of you." He rose and moved to stand behind her. Laying a single hand on her shoulder, he asked in a dangerously low voice, "Is your curiosity sated, son? Think carefully before you answer."

Still looking at Jaime, Arya reached up and took Tywin's hand.

Jaime glanced once more between them; then he sank to one knee and took her other hand. "My Lady," he said. "Welcome to the pride."

"You do me too great an honor, ser;" she replied quietly, "I am a wolf. My pack has scattered to the winds, however, and what I do, I do to bring them home."

With that, she turned back to the table and waited for Tywin to pull out her chair for her before sitting.

Her cup, bearing a wolf running by a lion's side, glittered in the candlelight.

Arya paced, uncomfortable in the opulent new chambers she had been allotted. _Where are they?_ she thought. Elien and Anandre had disappeared shortly before, ostensibly to find her night things.

_I haven't needed help dressing since I was in Mother's arms._ She stalked wall to wall, waiting. _This is ridiculous. If only I had something to change into, I wouldn't need them; it's amazing how much power I seem to have lost, when I thought I was getting more._

The door opened. "Where have you…" she started, whipping around to look. The question died on her lips, as Tywin entered, closing the door behind him. Suddenly, the anxiety that had fled in the dining hall was upon her again, and she could feel her heart beating in her throat. "My Lord," she whispered.

He crossed to stand before her. "Tywin," he said, and took her hands. "Say it, Arya."

"Tywin," she said quietly. _Malachite, that's what his eyes remind me of. Malachite. As beautiful – and as hard._

"That was magnificent," he said. "But you will have to face those questions again and again before it is done, you know."

"I know," she replied, a whisper of steel in her words.

"But that was the hardest. When they see that I mean what I say, and that you cannot be cowed, they will back down. You did wonderfully."

"Thank you. But does it not bother you? My age?"

"No. Should it? You are intelligent; you are loyal; and no one can doubt your courage. I won't have you at some other man's side when you belong by mine." He pulled her to him. "You are lovely, my dear. You will be stunning when we stand before the Septon."

_The Septon. To say the words, with him, before the Septon. Gods…_

Mistaking her silence, he brushed a thumb along her jawline and said, "We can have the ceremony in the godswood, if you would rather…"

She thought for a second. Shaking her head, she said, "No… I mean, yes; we should have it in the godswood, but by a Septon. That way…"

He nodded. "Yes. I should have thought of the compromise myself. I will make the arrangements; I wanted to tell you that the ceremony will take place in a week's time."

_A week! Holy hells…_ She stared past him into nothingness.

"Arya, there is no comfortable way to ask this, but I must know…"

She met his eye again as his thumb traced fire by her ear.

"You've lived amongst the guards for years, now; have any of them…" he paused.

_Have any of them what? Oh, Gods, THAT._ She let out a single laugh. "Some have _tried_. But, no, my L… Tywin. I remain quite – untouched."

He exhaled slowly and nodded. "I had to ask. So, then, how much experience _have_ you had?"

_None. _Truthfully, she hadn't been parted from the dagger strapped to her calf since Gendry had given it to her in Harrenhal, so many years before; that dagger had served to keep at bay those imbeciles who thought to force themselves upon her. "Not… not much." She replied, smiling weakly. _None is not much, right?_

"Good," he growled, and pulled her face to his, winding his fingers through her hair as he laid fire on her lips. He was more aggressive this time, opening her mouth with his own and dancing his tongue in with hers before drawing hers back into his own, suckling and tasting it as she sank against him. But he held firm, pressing his body against hers as she reached up behind him to hold on.

His fingers drew lightly along her back and neck, and she arched backwards, allowing his lips to begin kissing her neck and ear. He nipped an earlobe and whispered, "Don't let them start now; I'd hate to have to kill someone for loving you."

She dropped her forehead to his chest as he stroked her hair. "Do not worry, my… Tywin. I would kill them before you ever had the chance."

He laughed, then, and she smiled and looked up at him.

"By the Gods," he said, "I believe you would." His eyes glittered. "Do you know how to use that little trinket you keep strapped to your boot, then?"

She had it out and a whisker from his neck in a single, smooth instant, never breaking eye contact. "I think I understand the basics," she answered, still smiling.

He hadn't flinched. His smile broadened. "All right," he said, pushing the blade away with a finger. "Point made. Still, I would feel better if you had some formal training."

A wild hope breezed through her as she sheathed the dagger; she had forgotten how much she enjoyed her arms lessons.

He laughed again, still holding her close. "How is it that that makes you happier than the ring did?"

"If you have to ask, my Lord,"

"Tywin."

"If you have to ask, Tywin, then perhaps you do not know everything about me quite yet," she said.

"Thank the Gods for that. Fine. I shall arrange time for you with the armsmaster."

Arya thought for a moment. _Wait…_ "Isn't that… Jaime?"

"Just so," he replied.

She laughed. "I can't wait."

"Neither can I," he responded. "Now. I believe you were having some difficulty with your garments?"

The electric current that had coursed through her for the first time so recently thrummed through her again as he began untying the laces at the back of the gown. "It is a pity to take it from you," he whispered, "but my Lady must be comfortable." He finished with the last of the laces, his fingertips brushing her back from tailbone to neck before he took her face in his hands and kissed her once more.

A small, unfamiliar, sound escaped her, and he stepped back, eyes searching her face. "A week, my Lady," he whispered, then kissed the top of her head. "I shall send your ladies back in to you."

_I should have known,_ she thought, as she fought to stay upright when he left, then exhaled, steadying herself on the bedpost. _A week. One week, and I shall be Lady Lannister. Gods. Forgive me, Father._


	4. Chapter 4 Of Indignities

Chapter Four: Of Indignities

_He's figured it out,_ Baelish thought. _How many years late? It took the old bastard long enough. _He tapped his fingers irritably on the desk. _Didn't expect him to marry her himself, though. Can he – he can't really __LOVE__ her… can he?_

He laughed. _He does, the damn fool. He does! It's the only thing that makes any sense._ He stood and went to stare out the window, down into the courtyard below, where Sansa sat again; incredibly enough, she remained ignorant of the nuances of the game. _But for how long?_ He turned back to the desk. _I was certain I would have her married and in my pocket long before they dealt with Arya._

He went to his door and opened it to speak to the guard outside. "Please ask my Lord Lannister to join me," he said.

"Yes, my Lord," the guard said.

He was staring out the window at Sansa when Tyrion returned.

"You honor me," Tyrion said. "I've been quietly suffering from your absence, Lord Baelish."

"I do apologize, my Lord Lannister; regrettably, urgent business kept me from attending to my duties as host. I hope you have found your accommodations to your liking?"

Tyrion sat at the desk, uncomfortably aware of the chair's height as his legs dangled. "Tolerable, my Lord Baelish, given my Lady wife's absence."

Baelish turned, smiling. "Ah, yes. Your Lady wife. I am sure you understand my position in that regard."

"No; as a matter of fact, I do _not_ understand your position in keeping a man from his wife."

"Certainly, given the… circumstances… I had to wonder."

Tyrion rolled his eyes. "And are you still? 'Wondering?'"

"No." He sank into the armchair at the desk.

Tyrion ground his teeth. _"And?"_

"Sansa corroborates your claim," Baelish said.

"I should hope so," Tyrion replied, drumming his fingers on the desk. "We were married before both men and gods."

"Yes. Men and gods. There doesn't seem to be much room in there for women or dwarves, though, does there?"

"What do you want, Baelish?"

"The same things as you, I expect: long life, a few comforts, love…"

"And from Sansa and me?" He growled.

"Ah. Interesting news on that front; it seems that your father has found your sister-in-law."

"Really."

"You don't sound surprised, Lord Tyrion."

"Should I be? And what does he plan to do with the child?"

"Marry her."

Tyrion hesitated, then laughed. "You're joking."

"I'm not," Baelish replied, his face stony.

"She would never marry him," Tyrion cried, incredulous. "She wants him dead! Him, Jaime, and the rest of us."

"Apparently somewhat less than you yourself do; did you not know that the girl saved his life?"

"I had heard the rumors, yes; but I disregarded them as outrageous."

"Mm. Yes. Well, that does bring us back to your Lady wife," Baelish said. "And you."

Tyrion waited.

"I could make a fair bit of money selling you back to your father," he mused.

"But you won't."

"No?" Baelish asked.

"No, you won't. Because you need me to take back Winterfell."

"Do I? And why is that?"

Tyrion leaned forward. "Because I can give you Stannis."

Baelish smiled.

_Who in the seven hells is THAT?_ Arya thought, as she stared at herself in the glass. The seamstresses had been working tirelessly on everything from smallclothes to the resplendent wedding gown she was now trying on.

"My Lady?" Elien said again.

"Yes, Elien, yes, all right. Tell them I said it will do," she snapped irritably.

The gown was white satin – a white so bright that it was almost silver. Gold embroidered vines crossed the arms and hem, where silver and crimson roses bloomed incongruously amidst embroidered snowflakes in white and silver. A white cloak surrounded everything, lined with pearl grey fur.

And once again, the bodice was cut so low as to leave little doubt about its contents. Arya scowled.

"It truly is beautiful, my Lady," Anandra said.

"All _right_, I said!" Arya twisted her hips. _It IS swishy, though. And when they do the hair and everything…_ She swayed from side to side, enjoying the effect, until she saw the wry smile on Anandra's face.

The door opened behind them.

"My Lord, no!"

Arya turned, and her stomach dropped. Tywin stood in the doorway, smile slowly growing as his eyes crept from her feet to her face. Arya stood a bit taller. "My L… Tywin – you aren't supposed to see the dress until tomorrow," she said.

He stepped easily down the stairs and crossed to where she stood, kissing her gently upon the cheek. He leaned in and whispered, "I would gladly remove it from you, but I fear that that may be seen as even more inappropriate."

Arya flushed.

"Besides," he said, straightening, "who do you think gave the seamstresses their specifications?" He turned his head slightly. "Leave us," he commanded.

Elien and Anandra fled.

_Traitors,_ Arya thought. _Who are they supposed to be serving, anyway?_

"It _is_ beautiful on you," he said, turning to the sideboard and pouring two goblets of a white wine that still managed to be fruity. "Or, rather, you are beautiful in it." He handed her a cup.

"Thank you my L… Tywin."

"Perhaps you should simply call me 'my Tywin,' and have done with it," he said, smiling.

"As you say, my L… Tywin," Arya said, and then laughed.

"It is good to see you smiling," Tywin said. "It seems they have found my would-be assassin."

"Really? Who?"

"Tyrion," he replied, watching her.

"That… makes no sense," she said, sitting beside him.

"No. It doesn't. I'm glad you agree," he said. "I'm having Varys look into it further, but the poisoner, a pernicious little fellow in a guard's uniform, is being held for later questioning. Meanwhile, I wanted to come see how you are faring; it seems I need not have worried."

She smiled. "Do you really like it?"

"Of course I do. But I confess, I shall be happy when this ordeal is behind us and we can get back to the task of living our daily lives – a little less under the spotlight."

_I couldn't agree more._

"Arya…"

She looked at him, waiting.

"You do _know_ what happens on the wedding night…?"

"Of course I do!" she replied indignantly.

He nodded, exhaling. "Good. And that it will cause some pain, the first time?"

_No, I didn't know THAT…_ She stared at him, then slowly shook her head.

"Ah. Well. I shall try to make it as easy as possible for you, but truthfully, you can consider it your gift to me."

Arya's eyebrows shot up. "My _gift_ to you? Do you _want_ it to hurt?"

He squeezed her knee. "I'd be lying if I said no; I am only a man, after all." He smiled a little. "And it is only once."

She was speechless. He sat before her, smiling, then bent easily to slide a hand up her calf and beneath the skirt. She slapped his hand. "Hey!" She said. "Tomorrow."

He laughed, a low, guttural laugh that truly did sound predatory as he squeezed her knee again, bare this time. "Yes. Tomorrow. And I promise, I will not be the only one taking their pleasure." He released her leg and pulled her to him, kissing her tenderly before he rose and exited, leaving her boneless behind him.


	5. Chapter 5 Of Contracts that Abide

Chapter Five: Of Contracts that Abide

_Gods,_ she thought. _Holy Hells! Is the entire city here?_ She stood at the end of a fifty mile walk to the Heart Tree, where stood the High Septon. She surveyed the Godswood. It was packed – _packed_ – with people. _I don't think I can walk that far without spilling my breakfast over them all._

Truthfully, she had eaten nothing, despite Elien's urging. The little Lady's maid had proven to have a motherly streak as wide as the wilds of the North. Usually it was comforting, but this morning, it had been only irritating; Arya had wanted nothing more than to get it over with, but time never had served her well, and now, she wanted it to stop entirely. She shifted her weight uneasily.

The crowd grew silent as the High Septon stepped before the Heart Tree.

"I'm going to be sick," she whispered.

Elien stepped to her side. "When he steps into the clearing, set your eyes on him, and do not look away. You will want to run, but try to slow your steps; Anandra and I shall help you. A wedding like this comes only very rarely – let them see you. Today is the day you win their hearts, my Lady."

Arya nodded.

The hymn started, and he stepped into the clearing, every inch the Lion of Lannister, Jaime standing behind him. _Courage,_ she reminded herself. Then he looked at her, and everyone else disappeared. He gave her a single nod, face set with a smile so small that she was certain that no one else saw it. _It is meant for me,_ she thought. _Me, and me alone. As is Tywin himself – meant for me alone._

"It is time, my Lady," Anandra said quietly.

The ends of her cloak were already damp in her clutches. _Meet his eyes, and do not look away._ She took a deep breath and set her feet along the path to marriage, using his eyes as a beacon to bring her home.

Elien had been right; she did want to run, once she started moving, but the two women managed to adjust the tension on the train of the gown in a way that held her back.

His eyes bored into hers, drawing her inexorably to him.

_Gods help me, I am lost,_ she thought, as she closed the final distance between them.

He was resplendent in crimson and gold; his shirt and cloak were the red of roses and blood, his cloak held in place by two golden clasps fashioned in what she was beginning to recognize as their sigil – the running lion and wolf that she saw also at his golden belt buckle. Their eyes sparkled, one a diamond, the other a ruby. His trousers were black, and fitted neatly into the black boots that were polished to gleaming. He wore his sword at his side – no ceremonial piece, but a weapon she knew was as much a part of him as his arm, or leg.

Tywin's hand was extended to hers, and as they curled together and he pulled her in, drawing her surely to his side.

"My love," he said quietly. "I have never seen anything so beautiful."

She swallowed, forcing her heart back down where it was meant to be.

"…two of our proudest Houses," the Septon was saying, as Arya realized that the ceremony had truly begun, and she remained staring at him. She turned to face the priest. Tywin squeezed her hand.

_I should probably be listening to this,_ she thought, but all she could focus on was his hand in hers, in front of what must have been thousands of people. _Maybe I am just a child._ And then – she could never have said from where – a new strength flowed through her. _No. I am a woman. A woman of Winterfell; a woman of the North. A Stark woman. _She glanced around at the crowd of Southern faces, all staring at her, and in that moment, they ceased to be Southerners. _My people,_ she thought. _These are my people, now._ She took a deep breath, filling her lungs and straightening her shoulders as the Septon droned on._ And I shall be their queen. Mother and Father may not be here in body, but by the Gods, I shall do them proud._

The Septon stopped speaking, and she felt the gentle pressure of Tywin's hand in hers. She turned to face him, his cupbearer no longer, but Lady Arya Stark.

"Heart of my heart you are," Tywin began. "The sun of my dawn, the stars of my twilight; the joy of my summer and the strength of my winter. With all that I am, and all that I hope to be, I ask you, Arya Stark, to be my wife, to share my days and to warm my nights. All that I have I ask you to share with me; your past and your future both I ask you to trust to me. I beg these things of you, and in return, I promise you my protection and my guidance; my heart, you have already."

Arya lifted her free hand to his. "Heart of my heart you are, Tywin Lannister, and will always be." She spoke quietly but surely, growing with confidence as she continued. "The warmth of the sun, the nourishment of rain; the joy of laughter, the strength of silence. All I have been, and all that I hope to be, I give to you; the childhood of my past, and the children of my future I entrust to you. Your honor and fidelity I beg of you, and in return, I promise you my comfort and my strength; my heart, you have already." She smiled; she had practiced what she had written over and over with Anandra, certain she would forget – but in the end, the words came out easily and certainly.

She _did_ have to repeat the words the Septon provided; but those were the Gods' vows – not hers.

They had decided that Tommen was too young to act in her father's stead in the cloaking; besides, Arya insisted upon a Northerner to do this for her. The Red Keep was strangely bereft of Northerners, however, and she ended up choosing an officer of the Night's Watch in the city to beg for recruits to do the deed. He had blushed and stammered when she asked, but in the end, had yielded. Now, he stepped behind Arya, and removed her cloak, saying quietly as he did so, "You are beautiful, my Lady. Lord Stark would be proud."

"Thank you," she replied quietly. "I shall see that the men of the Night's Watch are not forgotten."

Then he was stepping away, handing her cloak to Jaime as Tywin moved into place behind her and clipped the Golden Lion of Lannister to her back. Pulling her hair free, he whispered, "You truly are stunning, Arya."

She smiled in response as he stepped back in front of her.

The Septon nodded. Arya looked into Tywin's eyes. "With this kiss, I pledge my love, and take you as my lord and husband."

"With this kiss, I pledge my love," he replied, "and take you as my lady and wife." He took her cheeks between his hands and laid his lips on hers.

A high whistle was the only warning she might have had, had she been thinking of it. But her mind was on Tywin and the night ahead, not on arrows and assassination attempts, so when she heard the vibration, she turned towards it.

It was as if someone – someone large and _very_ angry – had punched her in the neck.

She dropped, and the Godswood erupted into madness.


	6. Chapter 6Of Inciting Extremes of Emotion

Chapter Six: Of Inciting Extremes of Emotion

She stood hidden amongst the brush, staring through the screaming crowds at her own body, which lay at the foot of the Heart Tree, Tywin bent over it, shouting. She couldn't hear what he was saying through the ruckus, and he was facing away from her. The smell of her own blood was in the air. She turned and ran, seeking one carrying a particular human weapon; one with the stench of fear on him.

"She is not a child, she is my _wife, _and I don't _care_ how many men you have out there! I don't care that he's dead, and I don't care that they are _'trying!'_ I am paying you for _results_, not excuses!" A loud smack of palm on wood sounded from the adjacent room.

_Gods…_ Arya thought blearily. _I don't know that I've ever heard him this angry before. Holy hell, that hurts,_ she thought as she turned her head to the voices and opened her eyes. It was night time, but the torchlight flickered cheerily. _Where __am__ I? Wait… __his__ chambers?_ She blinked.

"My Lord," Anandra's voice sounded quietly from the other room. "She is awakening."

There was a pause. "Now you listen to me, Danin; you are going to get me answers, and you are going to get them soon. Get them – or get another employer. Are we clear?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Get out."

A door closed, and Tywin strode ferociously into the room. Lowering himself onto the end of the bed, he met her gaze with a stare of cold fire.

"How are you?" He asked.

"Better than you, I expect," she replied, and smiled. "It hurts a little, but mostly I'm just a bit tired."

He relaxed somewhat at that and took her hand.

It was at this point that Arya realized that she lay under the heavy blankets – without clothing of any kind. Her eyes widened, and she pulled the blanket up to her chin – or would have, if not for the heavy bandage over the crook of her neck.

"The gown is lost, I'm afraid; they had to cut it from you. I'm sorry."

"It was just a dress, my L…ion." She smiled.

"Better," he said, relaxing a bit more. "I did have them cover you, but there was quite a bit of bleeding. You were very lucky."

"That wasn't quite how I'd expected it to go."

"Ha! No. Me either." He stood and went to the wardrobe, where he began to undress. "That could well have been the third attempt on my life that you have foiled – if it wasn't the first on your own."

Arya scooted down further beneath the blankets, but watched him curiously. "Tywin," she said.

"Mm?" He was extinguishing most of the torches and candles.

"Did you catch him?"

He returned in smallclothes, a look of disgust on his face as he peeled the blanket back and settled in beside her. "Yes. He ran afoul of some kind of large dog as he tried to escape, and the bite slowed him down. But the coward took poison and died almost immediately after we caught him. Rat." He rolled up on his side, facing her. "Don't worry, my dear, I'll find out who is behind this. And there won't be a rock in Westeros for them to hide behind when I do." He leaned over and kissed her, his lips soft and dry on her own. Then his mouth was opening hers, and his tongue swept languorously in with hers. She gasped with the fire that swept through her, and reached for him – and then gasped in pain.

"Mm. Forgive me, my love." He laid her arm down and moved closer, his side brushing her abdomen. "Perhaps we should wait a day, hm?" His fingers were combing through her hair. She wiggled her arm out from under his, and placed her hand on his side.

She shook her head. "I'm fine," she whispered.

"Gently, then," he replied quietly, and she nodded. He settled in again, kissing her slowly and deeply, until she moaned and rolled toward him. He pulled back, pushing her gently but insistently back to the mattress. "Let me. This time, darling, just let me, hm?"

He ran a palm up her side, laying it on her breast. He watched her face as he ran his thumb over her nipple. "You are lovely, do you know that?"

She slid her hand down his side to rest on his hip while he continued caressing her breast and kissing her, until he moved over her and pressed his hips to hers. She inhaled sharply, and he smiled.

_This is it,_ she thought. _This is where it will hurt._

But instead, his hand snaked down between them, and came to rest right _there._ Startled, Arya clamped down and tried to push herself up on the bed, but of course, his weight on her made that somewhat difficult.

"Arya," he said, "stop. Trust me, hm?"

She relaxed a little, eyes anxiously watching his face.

"I'm getting your body ready for mine, that's all. Trust me. Now open."

It was a battle, getting her mind to override her instincts, but she slid her legs apart enough for him to slide one knee between them, and then the other.

When the touch came again, it was surprisingly gentle. He leaned back over her and whispered, "it's _supposed_ to be different when a man touches you here than when you touch yourself; but not all men know what they're doing. I do."

He kissed her again, and she felt him first separating the delicate tissues, then stroking areas she'd never thought anyone would touch.

"Relax, Arya. Stop fighting me. Just let it happen."

She smiled, her eyes dancing in his. "You married _me_, and you want me to stop fighting?"

He almost smiled back. "Yes. I do. Everyone else you may fight; but not me, and certainly not now. Here. Close your eyes."

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. His hand remained where it was, but was motionless. He began to kiss her, whisper light: her ear; her eyelids; her mouth. When he opened his mouth again, she was ready, and almost didn't notice that his fingers had begun lightly stroking her again. Almost.

He took his time, stroking deeper and deeper, and Arya began to notice that she was moving her hips towards his fingers. Actually, it felt rather nice.

Actually, it was delicious.

Actually…

_Gods, what is he doing?_

Arya moaned.

Something was missing. She needed… something.

Tywin slipped a finger inside, and she arched reflexively back, forcing away the pain in her neck.

"Your body is almost ready for mine, dear heart."

He withdrew his finger, and Arya let out a whimper of protest that almost annoyed her, it was so unlike her. But he didn't seem to notice; he was busy with –

His smallclothes.

He was taking off his smallclothes.

Arya's heart rate jumped.

He lay back over her. "Ssh. I told you I would make sure your body was ready, didn't I?"

She looked at him and nodded.

He placed a finger back inside, and she forgot everything. She was pulsing, now, and felt like straining, as he had a thumb just outside her entrance, circling gently. And then she was arching again, and he withdrew his finger, and replaced it with…

Ah, but he had been right, she _was_ ready. He entered her slowly, still circling that sensitive tissue with his thumb.

"Tywin, please…" she heard herself say.

He pulled her legs behind him.

"Look at me, Arya," he said.

She met his eye, and he began pushing inside her, stretching her.

She closed her eyes and pushed against him.

"Arya. Open your eyes."

She looked at him again, and saw something hungry in his eyes that she'd never seen there before –

And then, he thrust, and she screamed in pain, and he let out what sounded almost like a roar –

And then, all was still.

Arya squeezed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth. He bent over her, wiping the two tears that had escaped from the corners of her eyes. "That's all, love. That's all. Tell me when you are ready."

She lay panting, _full_, with a fullness she hadn't expected. But over a few moments, the pain dissipated. She opened her eyes to see his staring right into hers, waiting. She nodded slowly, and then, he started to move again, eyes locked with hers. She was still a little sore, but he reached between them again, and started stroking once more.

Arya began to relax again, her legs widening as he pushed even further within her. They began to rock together, and soon, his lips were on hers again, and she found herself hungrily suckling as they moved. The pulsation became almost more than she could bear, and she locked her ankles together, but Tywin wouldn't stop – he would not stop, and she was falling. She turned her head to the side.

He kissed her neck just above the bandage and whispered, "Let go, Arya. Stop fighting it and let go."

And she did. She groaned and arched back as the world exploded and she moved against him again and again, and he thrust into her movements over and over again, forever.

She wasn't sure which one of them stopped moving first, but when the world came back into focus, he was kissing her with a new tenderness, and she was holding him to her, the light golden hairs on his chest warm against her.

Eventually, he slipped from her and slid to her side. She rolled up on one side and was suddenly very aware of two things – her neck ached very, very badly; and the bed was sopping wet. She cringed. _Nobody ever mentioned that it would be so… messy._

He stood and moved to the sideboard, pouring something into a goblet. He picked it up and took a cloth from his wardrobe, then returned with both to the bed. He handed her the goblet. "Drink," he said.

Arya arched her eyebrows at him inquisitively.

"Milk of the poppy," he said. "Drink."

"It isn't that bad," she replied.

"Arya. Drink."

She sighed and took the goblet, grimacing at the sickly sweet taste. Then he started drying her legs and the bed, and she flinched; he glanced up at her. "Warn me next time," she said, smiling, and he chuckled, tossing the cloth over the edge of the bed. She just had time to sigh contentedly as he pulled her to him before she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.


	7. Chapter 7 Of Investigations

Chapter Seven: Of Investigations

Arya woke in the small hours, momentarily disoriented. Her neck ached, which helped bring the previous hours back to her. In the dim light, she judged there to be still a few more hours until sunrise. She was lying on her side, facing the edge of the bed. Tywin's arm lay beneath her head, his fingers twitching occasionally in his sleep.

_Well, it's done, now; I am a married woman._ Careful not to disturb Tywin, she pushed herself up and rolled over to face him. Things had moved so quickly the past week that she really hadn't had any time to look at the man she would now call 'husband'. _Except for his eyes; I think I have those memorized._ Thinking for a moment, she decided that perhaps that wasn't quite the truth. _He can say more with a look than most people can say in a million years with their mouths, so perhaps it will take some time to have them all memorized – strictly speaking._

But now, in the flickering light and silence of their bedchamber, she looked. His face was tanned to a golden brown, and the lines showed that at least at some point, he had laughed and smiled. _I will make him laugh,_ she decided. _That will be my goal; within a couple of months, I want to be able to make him laugh at least once every day._

Glancing once to make certain he was truly asleep, she turned the covers back. His frame was lean and well-muscled, though he did have a little rim of fat around his middle that made her smile. _Not completely perfect, then, at least by others' standards._ He had a few silvery scars, one over his right nipple, only a few fingers-breadth long; and another, longer, scar over the right side of his abdomen. Her eyes flicked back up to his face; then, satisfied that he still slept, she traced this one lightly to its nadir beneath his navel.

She saw it, then: his cock. _Penis,_ she corrected herself. _I am not some stableboy or second-hand guard, and I will call things by their proper names._ It was smaller than it had felt earlier, and certainly looked softer as well. Emboldened by Tywin's sleep – and by her natural curiosity – she touched it, and it _twitched_. She jerked her hand away and glanced back at Tywin, whose eyes were still closed. Fascinated, she touched it again, and it began stretching before her. She started stroking it, watching, enthralled, as it straightened and grew, until it was quite a bit bigger than it had been to start with – and every bit as large as she thought it must have been, earlier. _Actually,_ she smiled,_ at the time, I thought it was probably as big as one of the columns in the Great Hall – and as wide._ She grinned and glanced back up at his face – and was scared out of her mind at the malachite eyes that met hers. After a second, though, she noticed that they were _smiling_. Arya bit her lower lip as the two studied each other. There was no doubt that the wry look that Tywin bore _was_ a smile; but Arya hadn't the faintest idea what it _meant_, or what she should do.

So they remained motionless, cat and mouse, staring at one another, until Tywin broke the silence. "Was there something my Lady required?"

Arya couldn't help the laugh that escaped her.

"Come here," he said.

She moved back into the crook of his arm.

"Never seen one before, have you?"

"No," she said. Then she pushed herself up on one elbow. "You know I haven't! I told you that!"

"I know what you told me. I also know that people are liars. But I learned a few hours ago that you told me the truth about being a maid; and now I know that you told me the truth about having 'not much' experience."

She sat up. "I have never lied to you!"

"Except for the four years that you pretended to be a commoner in my service."

She glared at him.

"Calm down, Arya. Everyone lies."

"I don't."

"Really. Would you like to tell me about the bites on our would-be assassin's leg?"

She grimaced.

"Come here, wolf."

She folded her arms.

"Arya. Come here."

"No. I'm not a liar."

"Fine. You're not a liar. Now, come here."

She glared at him for a few moments more, then slowly laid down.

"Now, listen, Arya. This is our bed. It is for sleeping, and sometimes for reading or working. It is for love making. But it is not for fighting. All right?"

She glared at him.

"Arya."

She turned over.

He ran a finger up her backbone. "Arya."

"I'm. Not. A. Liar."

"I never called you a liar. But if you insist on fighting, I shall insist on you getting out of bed. And," he moved in behind her, pressing himself into her back, "all things considered, that would be a shame."

She turned her head to look at him, then hissed as the pain of turning her head so quickly shot through her neck.

"Why don't we forget this whole damn conversation," he said quietly, "and go back to the part where you had your hands on me, hm?"

"I won't forget it," she replied. "But I might be willing to put it aside for a while."

"Good enough," he agreed, as she turned slowly over to face him. He took her hand in his and wrapped it around the semi-hard shaft. "Like this," he said, proceeding to move her hand over it. "Watch, Arya. People are unique; it will take some time for us to learn each other's bodies."

"You knew mine."

"Not as well as I intend to."

He guided her hand for a few more strokes, then left her to investigate on her own. He was rubbing her back, gently stroking the skin over her tailbone as she moved her hand over him again and again, focusing intently as he became harder. Gradually, a little fluid began to accumulate at the tip. Curious, Arya ran her thumb over it, and Tywin inhaled sharply. She glanced up at him. He had his eyes closed, his face the most relaxed she had yet seen it.

_Hmm,_ she thought. Gently pushing herself up, she straddled him, lying the length of him along herself. He opened his eyes as she began rocking. She knew what she wanted, but it wasn't quite _happening_. She leaned forward, but the pressure she sought still wasn't there. She had released him when she moved on top of him, and didn't quite dare to pick him up again.

Tywin had no such compunctions, and he knew _exactly_ what she was trying for.

He pushed the length of himself against her, and she tipped her head back, sighing. Her rocking picked up pace until she could no longer keep up with the need driving her. He pushed himself up on his elbows and moved back on the bed until he could sit up. Arya stared at him, somewhat annoyed. He sat forward and pulled her to his chest. "_Now_ rock," he said quietly. Eyes searching his, Arya began moving again, gasping once as she felt him sliding over that sensitive spot, and again as he slipped inside. It was easier, now, to move in a way that eased the deep, throbbing ache that was settling into her.

Tywin held her hips, his fingers tracing small circles into her back as she moved, grinding her pelvis onto his. She didn't know what to do with her hands, but finally settled them onto his thighs. She was rolling forwards and back, his arms eventually moving up behind her to support her back as she moved.

"Gods, but you are lovely," he whispered hoarsely.

She opened her eyes, and couldn't help herself – she placed her hands behind his head and pulled him to her, kissing him ferociously, sucking on his tongue with a fervor that only ended when she heard herself growling. But by that point, it didn't matter, because Tywin was gone. Eyes closed, he clasped her to himself, returning her kiss with a hunger of his own. He took her hand from behind his head and placed it where he entered her, moving her fingers over the dense knot of tissue that would no longer be denied. Arya arched back.

"Lie down, love," he whispered urgently.

She opened her eyes and let him help her down to the bed. She whimpered a little as he withdrew from her.

He lay his fingers back in her crease and stroked.

She whimpered again. _"Tywin…"_

He stroked, and slipped two fingers inside her.

Her hips were rolling of their own accord.

He began stroking inside as well as out, and Arya could hold it back no more. It came, her legs falling apart, and in an instant, he was thrusting with her as she bucked against him.

"_Gods, Arya…"_ he growled, then lay his mouth savagely over hers as she clutched him to her. He held her good shoulder fast as he stiffened twice, three times, once more, and then sagged, breathing heavily. "What have you done to me, woman?"

She rolled into his chest as he lay beside her, falling quickly asleep without the need of any potion.

She regretted that the next morning, when she woke in agony. She had rolled onto her side, and she awoke rudely and painfully with a cry.

Tywin was already awake and dressed and was working at the desk up by one wall. At her outcry, he stood and moved to the bed, goblet in hand.

"No," she said, struggling to sit up.

"Don't be foolish. Drink."

"I'm not a child."

"Then do not act like one. You took an arrow to the neck, Arya, not a bruise to the behind; but if you do not drink the bloody potion, you will have both, now drink!"

She glared at him and would have jerked the goblet from his hand with enough force to slosh the contents from it, but he anticipated her irritation and held it out of the way as she swiped for hit. His head was tilted as he gazed at her. "Are you quite finished?"

She glowered. "Give it to me."

"As my Lady commands," he said, smiling. He handed her the cup, and she swigged the contents down.

"Gods, that's terrible," she swore.

He arched an eyebrow at her.

"I never said I would _like_ it," she grumbled.

"You will be glad enough of it when the Maester gets here to change the bandages."

Truthfully, she was already glad of it, but she would never admit that to him.

"I shall be gone for some time this morning," he said, sitting back down and dipping his pen in the inkwell. "I want to have a conversation with the guard whose poisoning attempt you so kindly foiled."

"I want to come!" She hated the whiny tone to her voice. She grimaced. "I have a few things I would like to ask, myself."

He turned. "I assure you, I shall ask everything that needs asking." He turned back to his work and rolled up the parchment into a tight scroll before continuing. "I won't have my lady wife participating in an interrogation."

"I'm not afraid."

"It isn't a question of being afraid, Arya. It is not appropriate, and it is not necessary."

A knock sounded at the door. He rose.

"You wouldn't have him to question if it weren't for me," she grumbled.

"A fact I do not deny," he replied easily, as he left the room to attend the door, returning momentarily with Grand Maester Pycelle. "I shall be certain to give him your regards, however." Leaning down, he kissed her on the forehead. "Be good, Arya," he whispered. "Leave this to me, all right?" He straightened, and she glared. "I shall be back when you awaken." He turned and moved to the doorway.

"You can be bloody irritating, do you know that?" she called after him.

"So I've been told," he called back.

Then the door closed.

Pycelle stood over her.

"What are you looking at?" she asked tetchily. "Get on with it."

"Yes, my Lady Lannister."

_Indeed,_ she thought._ I am becoming one of them._


	8. Chapter 8 Of Choices

Chapter Eight: Of Choices

"She wouldn't," Sansa said. She was pacing the length of the bedchamber – _their_ bedchamber – restlessly.

Tyrion hooked the heel of his boot into a rung on his chair. "Perhaps not. But she did."

Sansa rounded on him, scowling. "He forced her, then, just as they…" She let her words trail off, too polite to say them, but too angry to hold them entirely back.

"Just as they did to you?" He finished for her. "It is possible. But it doesn't seem likely; we have had ravens from multiple sources, after all."

"So you think my little sister fell in love with the man who killed our father?"

"Sansa, you know I bear the man no tenderness; but, in all fairness, it was not he who killed your father."

She laughed once. "He might as well have. And Robb, and mother." Her eyes were reddening.

He spoke quietly. "I'll not argue those points. But, Sansa, people do strange things… for love."

"Huh," she sniffed. "You've never met my sister," she said. "She doesn't _believe_ in love."

Tyrion pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and slipped off of the chair. Waddling to her side, he offered it to her.

She took it after a moment's hesitation. "Thank you, my Lord."

"Sansa, don't you think it's time you called me by my name?"

"Thank you, my Lord Tyrion."

"Come," he said, moving to the bed. "Sit."

She looked at him suspiciously.

"I only want to speak with you. Come." He pulled himself up to the bedside, and after a moment, Sansa followed. "Now. My father is a bastard; no one knows that better than I. But perhaps your sister sees something in him that makes her willing to look past that. Perhaps she loves him; perhaps she doesn't. But there's nothing to be gained by sitting here moping about it."

"So what do you suggest we do?"

_'We'. She said 'we.' Perhaps we are making progress after all._

"Do? I don't know that we should 'do' anything. But you may rest assured that regardless of what we do or do not do, Father will use your sister to his best advantage. He will have Winterfell soon."

"Not if I have anything to say about it, he won't."

Tyrion tilted his head to regard her. "And what exactly do you have to say about it, my Lady?"

She hesitated for a moment. "Arya's not the only Stark to wed a Lannister," she said.

"True," Tyrion replied. "But she may be the only one to put it to good use."

She looked down at him.

"Well," he said, "it's true. You're no good to the North cooped up here in the Eyrie where no one can see you. And it isn't as if you have embraced your Lannister marriage."

"I'd love to go home; but I can't! Winterfell is in the hands of the Boltons now. Besides," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, "there's no one left for me there anyway. And as for the marriage…" her voice trailed off again.

"I understand how you feel, my Lady, but in order for either of us to take action, we need to decide on a course of action. Principally, I need to know whether you wish to be freed from this marriage to wed Lord Baelish."

"Lord Baelish!"

"He is willing. And should that be your wish, I shall not stand in your way."

"What will you do?"

"I was thinking of asking Baratheon for his daughter's hand."

Sansa looked somewhat disappointed, which Tyrion found gratifying.

"She may not find me quite so hideous as you seem to, and –"

"I don't find you hideous!"

"Please, my Lady. Let us not play with the truth. In any case, given a few years' time, she may have an easier time with the marriage than you seem to have had."

"I… don't know what to say."

"Well. I'll give you a couple of days to consider the matter, shall I?" Tyrion slid from the bed and started for the door.

"Lord Tyrion, wait."

He turned.

"I… do not wish to marry Lord Baelish."

"He will not leave you unwed."

"I understand, my Lord."

"Then you wish to remain married – to me?"

She nodded slowly.

_Thunk!_

_ Damn._

_ Thunk!_

_ Seven hells!_

_ Thunk!_

"What in the seven hells do you think you are doing, girl?"

Arya turned.

Jaime Lannister was hurrying toward where she stood, a bucket at her side, a half dozen daggers remaining sunk mid-shaft deep into the sand.

"I _think_ I am practicing throwing, my Lord."

"I can see _that._ What I meant was, what are you doing out here _today_? My Lady," he finished lamely, as he reached her side.

She edged around the wooden barrier to the target to retrieve the daggers that she had already thrown. They came out with depressing ease.

"My throwing arm is perfectly fine. One does not need two arms to throw." She eyed him. "As you know well, my Lord."

He flushed. "Father would have my hide if he knew you were out here."

_That… is probably true._ She shrugged and took her position again, realizing with a start that he had thrown her off so much that she had forgotten that she still had several daggers yet to throw.

_Thunk!_

_"My Lady!"_

"Don't tell him, then."

_Thunk!_

_ Ow!_

Jaime had her throwing arm, dagger clasped, in an iron grip. "With all due respect, _my Lady,_ I have been obeying his orders far longer than I have yours, and with far better results."

"You're supposed to be training me anyway."

"Not. Today." He still had her wrist.

"Let go. You're hurting me."

"Drop the dagger."

She scowled. "No."

They stood there for several moments more, until Arya realized that she had neither the strength nor the leverage to overcome him; furthermore, she was already fighting the Gods-accursed Milk of the Poppy that Tywin had made her drink. "Fine," she said.

"Drop it."

She glared at him for a full minute longer; she had been intending to throw this last dagger, but in the event, had to drop it. "Bastard."

"As my Lady likes." Twisting his grip on her so that her arm was at her side once again, he turned for the training yard exit. She yanked her arm, but only received bruises on her wrist for her effort as she trotted after him indignantly.

"All _right_."

"My Lady will follow?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Jaime will be fine, thank you."

_I suppose it's better than 'Lord Kingslayer,' at any rate._

"How did you escape them, anyway?"

"Who?"

"The guards. Don't try to tell me that Father left you unguarded."

She flushed again. "Told them I had to attend to some –ah – womanly issues, and I chose not to return."

"Aha. That old ruse."

"I only wanted to get out of those old, stuffy apartments. I was bored."

"You took an _arrow_ to the _neck_ just yesterday; I imagine that boredom was what Pycelle had in mind."

She grimaced. "That musty old man. Wouldn't even stay for a game of stones after dosing me."

He chuckled. "Well. To address your earlier statement, yes, I shall be – working with you. But not until Father deems you ready. Still, perhaps I can find some more entertaining companionship for you."

She looked at him inquisitively as they climbed the stairs in the Tower of the Hand. "I'd be willing to wager that the lady Brienne might stand in for some guard duty."

"Really?" Arya had to fight to keep the enthusiasm from her voice.

"I shall see what I can arrange. Now, in," he said, as they reached the apartment doors. A guard stood there already. "The Lady Lannister has returned from taking the air," Jaime told him, "and is able to remain at home for the time being."

She flashed him her most "Displeased Lady of the Castle" stare, but all he did was smile and tip his head. "My Lady," he said, then closed the door.

She paced a bit, fueled by annoyance, before she sat on the edge of the bed. _I really __am__ tired… maybe I'll just lie down for a minute or two._

_Slam!_

"Have you lost your mind? What in the Seven HELLS were you thinking?!"

Arya bolted upright, momentarily confused. Tywin's thunderous face oriented her.

"Funny, Jaime asked roughly the same thing," she said. She went to push herself up on one elbow, but pain shot through her neck, and she dropped back to the bed. _This isn't helping my case,_ she thought, as she tried again with the other arm.

He landed palm-first with his face an inch from hers. "Do I appear to be joking, Arya?"

_No, just really, really loud._

"I am _trying_ to make a point!"

_Gods, did I say that out loud? _"Tywin, I…"

Green eyes stared, unblinking, at her. _They really are nice eyes._

"Are you even listening to me?"

She started getting annoyed. "I wanted to go down to the training yard. I can't use my bow arm yet, so…"

He took a deep breath through his nose, then spoke very quietly. "Arya, do you recall what _happened_ yesterday?"

"Not all of it, no, Tywin; if you recall, I was unconscious for much of the day."

"I _do_ recall, _girl_, do you? You understand how that came _about_, don't you?"

"Of course I do, Tywin, I just wanted to get out. I was bored."

"Bored. You were bored. An excellent reason to get yourself killed." He straightened, still glaring at her.

"Do you not think you are perhaps making too much of this, my Lion?" she gazed at him wryly.

"No, I do not. Don't even try it, Arya; they got to you through over a thousand people yesterday, and you think to wander around the keep unguarded a day later?"

She stood, intending to slide her hands up his chest. But instead, she got to about waist height – and blacked out.

When everything came back into focus, she was back in place under the blankets once more, blinking at a very white Tywin. He saw her open her eyes, then looked behind her and nodded. "I can take it from here, Pycelle."

"Are you certain, my Lord? I can…"

"Pycelle."

"Yes, my Lord Lannister."

"I'm awfully tired of having that happen," Arya said.

He grimaced. "You and me both, Arya, but if you hadn't been so…" he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Focusing on her once again, he put his hand on the crown of her head. "Arya, this is going to be a learning experience for both of us, but please – do note that I am saying 'please' – just do as I ask you to do for the next few days, hm? Otherwise, you are going to bleed to death, I shall have a heart attack, Pycelle will collapse in a fit – or some combination of the three. All right? Can you do that? Look, just pretend that you are still deathly afraid of me, and do as I say, all right?"

"I was never deathly afraid of you, Tywin."

_"Arya,"_ he growled.

"All right, all _right_," she mumbled. Looking up at him beneath her eyelashes, she asked, "what happened, anyway?"

"The blasted wound opened up inside your neck. You were lucky you didn't bleed to death in the training yard, or up here while you slept."

"Yes. Bloody lucky."

"It is no laughing matter, Arya. Half of King's Landing was at the Gate tonight asking to see Lady Lannister to make certain you were well – as if I'd kill you, when you were shot in full view of the entire populace."

_"Really?_ They wanted to see _me?_" It was always Sansa who had commanded all the adoration and affection; this was a new concept for Arya.

"And why shouldn't they, hm? But please, and again, notice that I _am_ saying 'please,' do not complicate things by _trying_ to get yourself killed, all right?"

"Yes, my Lord,"Arya said, tipping her head and pulling at the blankets in an imitation of a curtsey.

He _almost_ smiled as he planted a kiss on her forehead and rose, turning from the bed to get undressed. She watched him with interest. He didn't even turn around as he said, "No."

She pouted.

He blew out several of the candles and extinguished most of the torches, leaving the room in its nighttime state. "No." He slid into bed beside her, pulling the covers up over them.

She trailed a finger down his chest.

He picked it up and smoothly pulled her into the crook of his arm. "No. Don't make me drug you."

"Oh, all _right._"

"Good night, my dear," he said, kissing her.

She made it last before tucking herself into his shoulder and closing her eyes. He chuckled, a low vibration deep in his chest. She smiled, and drifted into sleep.


	9. Chapter 9 Of the Passion of Stillness

Chapter Nine: Of the Passion of Stillness

_Scritch._

_ What the…?_

_ Scritch, scritch, scritch…._

Arya blinked into a seriously over-bright room.

_I understand that daytime has to come,_ she thought irritably, _but does it have to be so bloody enthusiastic about it?_

_Scritch…_

Turning her head, she saw Tywin, sitting at his desk. The desk had apparently been moved into their bedroom while she slept, displacing their wardrobe, which was now Gods only knew where.

_Must be in the sitting room._

She sat up. Or tried to. "Tywin? What are you doing?"

He dipped his pen in his inkwell and kept writing. Without missing a beat, he said, "Guard duty."

_What the…? _She tried again to sit up, using her legs to lever her around. She just ended up lying awkwardly with one leg out of bed and her head on his side of the mattress. "Guard duty? What… you don't mean… _Tywin!"_ Sheer irritation fueled her and she rolled over onto her good arm and pushed herself into a sitting position. It was a wobbly sitting position, but at least she was upright.

"Don't. You. Dare." _Scritch. Scritch scritch scritch. Plunk._

"Aren't you supposed to have some big… council meeting… thing today?"

"I _was_."

Arya grabbed onto the bedside table. "Well, then…?"

"Apparently, I cannot trust my… Seven _HELLS, _Arya!" Tywin screeched the chair backwards and stormed over to where Arya lay, staring up at him from an Arya-puddle on the floor.

Arya shook her head briskly as Tywin put an arm under hers. _What… was I saying?_ She pushed at him irritably. "I can _do_ it."

He pivoted her back into the bed.

_Not again…_ "Tywin, no; please, _not_ the bed, there has _got_ to be someplace else. I am so _bloody_ sick of lying in that bed."

"I could just leave you on the floor," he growled as he tucked her securely back into place.

Arya sighed. _At least the view was different from down there._

"Look, Arya… move your feet…" she moved her legs over and he settled down next to her. "I know this is… difficult."

_He's trying to be __nice__ to me. I don't think I've ever seen him being nice to __anyone__!_

"But if you do not keep your arse firmly planted in this bed until I tell you that you can get out of it, I shall personally pin you to it with another arrow, do you understand me?"

Arya blinked.

Then she smiled sweetly at him and asked, "What about when I need to use the chamber pot, my Lord?"

_"Arya Lannister…"_ He closed his eyes and set his jaw. His nostrils were flaring as he breathed. Arya wasn't sure whether to be thrilled that she had finally gotten to him – or scared to death… because she had finally gotten to him.

After a moment, he opened his eyes and tried again. "Do you see that pitcher over there? On my desk? The desk that, incidentally, I had to move in here to ensure that you stayed put?"

She glanced over at the desk where a large brass pitcher sat on a wooden coaster. She looked slowly back at Tywin, a cold dread moving through her like November rain. She nodded.

"There is, between that pitcher and the ones I have stowed away, enough Milk of the Poppy to keep you sleeping until you birth the next heir to the Lannister throne. Do I make myself _very_ clear?"

"Yes. My Lord," she whispered, eyes huge.

He smiled tightly. "Good. Now, be a good girl and stay put so I can work, would you?"

She nodded.

He went back to the desk, leaving her lying there, heart racing. _Scritch. Scritch. Scritch. Plunk._

"Tywin?"

_Scritch. Scritchscritchscritch…. Pause._

"Yes. Arya." She saw his shoulders move as he took a resigned breath, but he still stared at the blasted parchment.

"You… wouldn't really…"

"I wouldn't really _what?"_

She spilled everything out before she could change her mind. "You wouldn't really drug me so that I slept until you could impregnate me and make me have enough babies to make sure we had a son… would you?" He put down his pen. He stared out his window – for a long, long time.

Then, he came over to his side of the bed and sat down. He sat for a _very_ long time, and Arya knew better than to say anything; she may only have been his cupbearer, but she had been virtually inseparable from him for four years. And she had paid attention. And Arya knew Tywin Lannister very, very well – or at least well enough to know when to let him be.

He sat.

And sat.

And sat.

But eventually, he took off his boots, got undressed, got into bed, and slid to Arya's side.

"Now," he said quietly, "I want you to listen."

Her eyes met his and travelled around them, trying to read them, to know what was coming – but she had never seen this look before.

"Are you listening, Arya? Because I only intend to say this once."

She nodded; her heart pounded.

"I." His eyes fixed on hers, ensuring that he had her. "Love. You. Arya." He nodded once, making certain she was still listening. "I will never," he paused, "do you hear me? I will _never_ – purposefully hurt you. I married you because I love you, not because I need you. Were that the case, I would have had you marry Jaime. Or Tommen. Either option certainly would have caused less ruckus. But I did not do that, did I?"

She was just staring at him, transfixed in his leonine gaze.

"Arya. I did not do that. Did I?"

"No," she whispered.

"No," he repeated. "I did not. I never wanted to love anyone else after my wife; it certainly was not convenient to fall in love – especially under these circumstances. And I suspect," he paused, looking at her inquisitively, "you feel the same, hm?"

She nodded.

He nodded with her. "But." He took her chin in a finger. "I… made that choice. I will not try to say that it simply _happened_, and that we had no choice in the matter; that is a coward's way out. Rather, I recognized certain feelings, and chose to accept them. And now, I love you, Arya. And _that_ is why I married you; _that_ is why I will kill the man who dares to harm you; and _that_ is why I absolutely _insist_ that you stay in this bed until that wound is healed. I will not lose you to some damn fool bleeding that could have been prevented had I simply been man enough to keep it from happening. So. No, I would not 'really do that.' But, Arya, do not test me; I do not react well to tests. There are things in life – many things – that I _would_ do, and have done, that I would prefer _not_ to do. Do you understand?"

Arya blinked. And then she nodded.

"Good. And one more thing. Understand this, and heed it well: you are my wife, and I love you, and I will protect you. But you are mine, Arya; and I demand obedience from mine own." His look was grave, and he still had her chin in his hand. Arya thought. She thought about Cersei, and Jaime. She thought about Joffrey and Tommen. She thought about Tyrion. They all at one point or another struggled against the man whose bed she now shared; and they all, in the end, yielded. All but Tyrion – whose life was now forfeit. She licked her lips. And then she nodded again.

"You understand?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Good." And then, he kissed her, once to drive away his words' edge, once to show her tenderness, and then again – and in this kiss was his power and his need for dominance. He was turning her attentions to him, sending a message; but also maneuvering her so that he had her emotionally and physically where he wanted her. And as he worked, the raw, frightening cold that had crept over her melted away; and then his tongue was tracing her lips, and she burned from lips to groin.

He slid next to her, his naked body only brushing against hers.

"I almost forgot," he whispered, and pressed his growing fullness against her.

She closed her eyes and inhaled swiftly. "Hm?"

"I could never simply take you for the sake of an heir…"

Her lips ghosted against his. "No? Why?"

"I enjoy you too much, and," he whispered as he kissed her, her sore arm coming up to lie on his side. "You are learning far too quickly."

Then he kissed her again, hungrily. "Now, you have presented me with something of a dilemma."

"Yes?" She leaned forward to nip his lip, but he pulled back.

"We are both quite aware that you are supposed to be _resting_."

She sighed.

"So this is what we are going to do," he said, leaning in and kissing her again. She pulled on his tongue, drinking him in. He growled. "Arya."

She looked back up at him.

"Listen." He laid a hand on her hip and rolled her up towards him; then, moving her knee over his hip, he began stroking her inner thigh. "Consider this," he whispered, "a challenge. You are not to move."

"I can't do that!"

"You can. And you will."

Arya closed her eyes, trying hard to ignore the fingers that were moving ever closer, very lightly.

"You recall me saying that I intended to know your body better," he said quietly.

"Yes, but…"

"I was quite serious," he cut her off. "Now, shush, and let me listen to your body rather than your voice."

Arya had thought that everything _down_ _there_ was just all the same. All of it sensitive, all of it unused to being touched, but essentially all… the same.

Arya had been wrong.

Tywin supported her with one arm behind her shoulder. But that arm also blocked exit, and when he first began, that was a problem. He laid his fingers on her; her hips jerked. He slowly separated the layers, and she pushed up against his arm, trying to move away as her mind and body fought opposite instincts.

"Arya. Relax. Be still; all I am doing is touching you. Your body and mine are teaching each other."

She took a deep breath and hooked her leg firmly over his.

He watched her face intently as he moved his fingers from place to place, sometimes stroking, sometimes seeking, sometimes simply hovering and waiting. And as she grew accustomed to his touch, she almost melted into it, as if he and she both disappeared while he mesmerized her. Left, right, up, down; one finger, two; light touches and firm touches, until there came a point when Arya's breathing became labored.

"Tywin…" she whispered.

"Ssh. Soon," he replied, and slipped a finger inside; Arya couldn't help it – she moved against him. His movements became more insistent, finding a set rhythm that she herself was not certain she could have duplicated, and she groaned.

Everything in the world was centered on what Tywin was doing.

"Very soon," he whispered, and swept a second finger in alongside the first. "I love you, Arya," he said, and he kissed her, and she latched on to him as if everything would disappear if she let go.

And then he was sliding the length himself along her, moving his fingers out of the way so that he could rub himself along where they had been; and then he was inside her, and she was arching back, and falling.

"Don't move, love,"

"I can't, Tywin," she said, barely aware of him.

"You can, Arya. Be still. I need you still, now."

Her breaths came short and fast, and he held himself against her, and started moving – over her, against her, inside her.

"Gods, Tywin, I have to…"

"No, Arya, you don't." He kissed her, matching his mouth's movements to his hips'. He held her hip to his and ground up against her once, twice, three times; then put his mouth by her ear and whispered, "Now. Come, love. Let me feel you come around me; I need you to come for me now." And he was doing… _something_… at the juncture of their bodies, making tiny, gentle circles there as he danced inside her and pushed her at last over the precipice where, until then, he had restrained her.

Arya pushed back against his unyielding arm and thrust against him as she fell, clasping and clenching him. Tywin held her, whispering, _"Yes,_ yes, Arya; just like that – oh, _Gods,_ woman…"

And shoulder injury or no, he was kissing her with unparalleled passion. His tongue danced around hers, his teeth nipped her tongue and lips, and though he held her still, he moved within her – and neither of them could still her inner motion at this point.

Again and again he thrust, quick and certain at first; then pointed and stilling up against her while he kissed her and emptied the fury and passion and love and tenderness of the day into her; then, finally, slow and tender as he stared into her eyes, blinking a few times almost like a sleepy child.

_He has light eyelashes. How is it that I never noticed that before?_ Arya thought, as thought began to seep back into her.

"Holy hell, Tywin," she whispered ultimately.

He caressed her cheek. "You have a mouth on you, woman," he said. "I am going to have to do something about that."

"Are you. I shall be bloody amazed to see you manage that. But what truly fascinates me is that, at this _particular_ moment in time, it is my language that most interests you." Arya was tired. Truthfully, Arya was exhausted beyond rational belief. But to admit that would be tantamount to admitting weakness, which she wouldn't do. Besides… _Holy HELL. I had no IDEA it could be like __that__._

Tywin wore an expression of irritatingly smug self-satisfaction. His arm remained steadfastly behind her – which was fair, considering that her leg still dangled over his hip. "Many things interest me currently, Arya." His eyes came close – very close – to twinkling.

"Really?"

"Certainly. The size of the Targaryen girl's dragons. What the hell Stannis is doing on the bloody Wall. The number of…"

She swatted at him, then hissed in pain when she connected with his forearm.

"Careful, now." He laid her arm on her side. "Be careful, Arya." He kissed her gently.

"Me?" She replied, gazing inquisitively into his eyes. "You're the one raising a lion in the den."

"Mm," he said, pulling her into the crook of his arm – a position she was beginning to occupy with relative frequency and ease. "Go to sleep, Arya."

"I'm not tired," she protested.

"Really?" he answered. "Well. _I_ am. And I find that I sleep more soundly with you here. So lie down and be quiet."

"Don't you have Big Important Hand Work to be doing?"

He met her gaze, studying her eyes for a moment. "I just completed my important hand work for the day." He smoothed a stray hair from her face. "Go to sleep, dear."

Arya glanced at the windows, where she was startled to find the light becoming dim. _Seven hells! How long were we…?_ She sighed and laid her head on his shoulder. He pulled her in closer with his chin over her head as he played with her hair.

"Tywin?" She whispered sleepily.

"Mm?"

"Is it always like that?"

He chuckled once. "No. Almost never."

"Then why…"

"Because, dear, we are different. Now. You are consigned to an absurd amount of time in this bed, which means that I am consigned to an equally absurd amount of time getting little to nothing done. To wit. We can discuss this at a later time. Go. To. Sleep."

_Different __how__? _Arya chewed her lip.

Tywin started stroking her side. "Feel, Arya."

Arya sighed again and closed her eyes. It wasn't until several hours later that she opened them again.


	10. Chapter 11 Of the Clouds on the Horizon

Chapter Eleven: Of the Clouds on the Horizon

"Are you all right?" Brienne asked, coming hesitantly in to the room after Tywin's exit.

Arya sat twisting the handkerchief in her fists, wondering if she'd said too much. She glanced up at the stolid woman. She had often wanted to speak with her, had thought they might be friends; but, given the circumstances, she had lived her life afraid to talk to anyone. About anything. Ever.

"Not… really, no," Arya ventured.

"Would you like some company?"

"I'd love some."

Brienne brought Tywin's chair over next to the bed. "You've really been working for him all this time?"

"With him. Yes." It was a fine distinction. It also was – strictly speaking – untrue. But Arya was feeling a bit touchy just at the moment.

"How could you stand it? Not telling anyone?"

"What choice did I have? Look what happened to everyone else in my family. Besides, he never mistreated me, and I learned a lot. He was stern, certainly; not someone to cross. But he was pretty easy to figure out, once I got the basics down. I think somewhere along the way, I knew – that _he _knew, I mean. He thinks he's this big, mysterious man; very frightening, very intimidating. But, really, all you need to do is listen to him – nod a lot, but make sure you really are listening – and know when to shut up, and when to get the hell out of his way."

Brienne smiled. "I think you just described almost every man in Westeros, my Lady Lannister."

"Arya. Please; I don't think I shall ever grow used to being 'my Lady,' and certainly not from you. Please."

"Not from me? Why?"

"You did what I never could; you broke away!" Arya glanced away. "You're free," she whispered.

Brienne laughed. "I think there may be one or two misconceptions there, my L…Arya."

Then Arya laughed. "You sound like me."

"I hear you have a pretty good throwing arm," Brienne said, and the two started chatting idly, starting a friendship that would become the deepest and longest-lived that either of them would ever have. And Arya did _not_ get out of bed. When Tywin returned, it was a couple of hours later, and he looked grim as he walked in to the uncharacteristic sound of his wife's laughter. He came in to the bedroom and both women looked up; Arya's face fell immediately at his visage.

He spared Brienne barely a glance. "Thank you," he said, dismissing her with more courtesy than he often showed.

"A pleasure, my Lord," she replied as she rose.

Arya grew anxious; Brienne wasn't moving quite quickly enough, and she didn't want Tywin to snap at her. But though he marked Brienne's every retreating step, he said nothing, and she made it out the door without incident. There were still a few hours left until dawn, and he went silently about the business of returning the room to its nighttime state before coming back to bed. Mutely, he extended his arm, and Arya moved over. "You two seemed to get along well," he said.

"Tywin."

He sighed. "It's late, Arya, and it isn't good; are you certain you want to know?"

"I want to know whatever you need to tell me tonight so that you can get some rest and we can face whatever monstrous thing faces us tomorrow."

He gazed at her for several moments, his eyes dilated and huge in the dark. Finally, he sighed again and said, "It's true. It's – all – true. My… _daughter…_ has seen fit to attack my _wife,_ and now leaves me with the mess, not to mention the question of what to do about _her_. She isn't out, not yet; but she will be soon, and she apparently wants you… gone. Badly. _This_… this was the son of a motherless mule who hired the archer. Cersei left him a certain poisonous gift in his bed. It was a bit reckless of her, but there is no doubt."

"All right."

"'All right?'" He pulled back and was looking at her incredulously. "'All _right?'_"

"What would you like me to say, Tywin? You'll tell me everything eventually."

"You don't know that!"

She considered him evenly, and then said, "All right."

_"Arya!"_

"What?"

"I may have to go to war against my own _daughter_ over this! I may have to displace the sitting _king,_ and you lie there saying, _all right?"_

She arched her eyebrows at him.

He stared at her.

And then he started to smile. It was a small smile – but it was a smile nonetheless. He tipped his head back as he regarded her. "Nicely done," he conceded quietly.

"I do learn, Tywin, and I have not survived your temper for four years without managing to do that – even if I was just 'hiding in the corner.' Do you feel better?" She asked.

He was still considering his unusual little wife. "Yes," he said.

"Will you tell me the rest tomorrow?" She asked.

"I might," he said, somewhat grumpily.

"All right," she said. And she kissed him lightly, and moved to lay her head down on his shoulder.

"_Arya_," he said, slightly wounded.

"Oh," she said sleepily. "Was there more?"

His look grew more sharp as he reassessed and considered.

The power balance was shifting – just a little.

_"Yes,_ actually, there _was,_" he growled. He bent and kissed her the way he had originally intended; the way one is _supposed_ to kiss one's wife when one is going to bed only a few days into a marriage. And then he smiled, as he felt her fingers curl into the back of his hand.

And Arya waited until his breathing became even and easy, and then whispered, "Good night, dear," closing her eyes as she felt him squeeze her shoulder.

"I just want to go _talk_ to him."

"Sansa…" Tyrion let out a slow, restrained breath that was just this side of exasperated. "Baelish is not the sort of man with whom you ought to have this sort of discussion alone. If you don't want me there, fine. I won't come. But take Bronn."

"Bronn's an _animal!_"

"No. Bronn is what the world has made him, as we all are; and in this case, the world has made an extremely fine personal protection device who happens to be in my employ. I _trust_ Bronn."

"Well, I don't," she said, rather petulantly, he thought. "I wish we'd kept Sandor with us."

_Again with the Hound,_ he thought irritably. _Perhaps I should just marry her off to him and save us all some time and trouble._

"Sansa, dear, I think Clegane was growing… uncomfortable… traveling with us."

"Why?"

Tyrion _almost_ rolled his eyes. Almost. But he knew better. "Let's get back to the discussion at hand. I need to get out of here. For – various reasons. Which means that you need to talk with Baelish. Today. But _please,_ my Lady, if you ever trusted _anything _I said, trust me on this: this is _not_ a discussion you want to have alone." He turned away and took a deep swig of the deep blood red wine in the goblet by his hand. "I know it is a discussion _I_ do not wish you to have alone," he muttered. _I stand a fairly good chance of coming out of that without a wife – if I am fortunate – and a head, if I am not._

"Why? What is he going to do? _Ravish_ me?" This last with an air of sarcastic drama that made Tyrion want to scream.  
"Yes," he said simply, which was perhaps better than the _"yes, Yes, YES!"_ that he felt like screaming at her, because the simple sincerity of that single word seemed to get to her as none of the conversation of the past hour had.

Her face fell. "He wouldn't," she whispered. "He loved my mother."

As if this were the revelation of the century.

As if it made a difference.

_Gods, she is a child. Even after everything, she remains a child. _He sat, swinging his leg back and forth as his finger ran back and forth over the eagle's wing hammered into the goblet. "Yes, Sansa, he would. That and more. Look, I understand that you wish to be gracious, and I appreciate that. I really love that about you. But in this, I really must insist. Bronn goes, or I go; I care not which, but take one of us."

Sansa considered him as if seeing him for the first time. "You really _are_ worried for me, aren't you?"

He closed his eyes and took another deep breath. _"Yes,_ Sansa, I _am._ Believe it or not, I actually do care for you. I would also prefer to be out of here before we are six feet deep in snow, so if you do not mind…"

"All right," she said finally. "You may come. Tonight. We shall sup with Lord Baelish tonight."

The desk made a loud _thunk_ as Tyrion's exasperated forehead crashed onto it.


	11. Chapter 12 Of the Ire of Kings

Chapter Twelve: Of the Ire of Kings

The sitting room door slammed.

"No, it's really more of a pivot…" Jaime turned quickly, demonstrating. "See? And then on to your…"

"What are you doing here?" Tywin asked without ceremony, tossing his gloves onto his desk.

Jaime sheathed his sword. "Well, you didn't want me at the Small Council meeting…"

"That does not equate to having you in my bed chambers," Tywin interrupted.

"Jaime was only…"

"Stay out of it, Arya," Tywin barked.

Arya jerked back as if struck.

"Only providing a bit of instruction, Father, nothing more sinister than that, I assure you," Jaime said easily. "And guarding my Lady."

Arya was reminded of the number of times she had seen Jaime shrug off Tywin's attacks previously – but in other settings and other times.

"Yes, well," Tywin responded, "I do not recall listing your name among those I wished to have guarding these chambers."

"My mistake," Jaime replied, moving to the door. He turned at the last moment and tipped his head to Arya. "My Lady," he said simply, and then he was gone, closing the apartment door quietly behind him.

"You would do well," Tywin said, placing a stack of parchment on his desk, "to recall who it was who _put_ that arrow into your neck."

"He was only…"

"I do not _care _what you believe he was doing, Arya! And you are not to question me before others again, do you understand?"

Tywin's words hung in the air for a moment while he stood bent over the desk. Finally, he slowly turned his gaze to where Arya sat, propped up in her spot at the end of the bed. A few books lay scattered over the mattress, testimony to her day's activities.

_"Arya?"_ he growled.

"No."

He tipped his head back and then straightened and stood. "I beg your pardon?" He asked, very quietly.

"No."

It was one word – only a single word – but it dropped the temperature in the room; it changed both of their heart rates; it made him walk slowly to her side, and it made her sit a little straighter, and a little taller. It made him a little redder, and her somewhat paler. But it was only a single word, spoken clearly and without hesitation.

Tywin stood directly over Arya, staring down at her; she met his gaze unflinchingly.

"No…_ what?"_ he asked somewhat menacingly, his voice barely above a whisper.

"No, I do not understand."

Grey eyes met green in the failing light of gloaming.

The silence stretched between them.

"What," he asked quietly, "is unclear?"

"Your reasoning."

"My. Reasoning."

"Yes."

"My reasoning is this, my dear. I have not always shared my _reasoning_ with you. Nor do I plan to. However, this is critical, so, I shall address it. By questioning me in front of others, you undermine my authority, both over you, and over them, and that I simply cannot abide. I asked – _begged_, actually – you to entrust your future to me, and this, you swore to do. Before hundreds, you swore. I furthermore explained that I demanded obedience, and you said that you understood. Now," his voice was a low growl that she almost had to strain to hear, "do you, or do you not, understand? And Arya, do consider your answer before you give it."

"I always do, Tywin."

His eyes were almost starting to glow as the pink light of sunset faded into dark. Still, he waited.

Finally, she spoke. "I never swore to obey you, Tywin, and you would have known me for a liar had I done so."

She could almost _hear_ the vein throbbing at the side of his temple, so she said, "Gods, Tywin, come sit down before you drop dead of sheer irritation. You can be just as annoyed over here."

"I _told_ you that that bed was not for fighting, but for…"

"Yes, I know; but considering how long you propose to keep me _in _this bed, and considering both of our temperaments, don't you think perhaps that was a bit unrealistic?" She sighed. Glancing back up at him, she pushed herself forward with one hand. "Fine, then. Where _would_ you prefer to fight? I do hope it's close." She scooched herself closer to the edge of the bed.

Tywin had not moved since he first reached her side; but, now, placed squarely between two of his own irreconcilable commands, he was forced to do something he disliked in the extreme – bend. But he didn't do it graciously.

"Don't push me, Arya." He turned and brought the chair that he kept by his desk over to the bedside, then sat and waited with the air of one who was quite willing to be silent for eternity if necessary.

Arya considered him. _If I play his game,_ she decided,_ then I will need to play by his rules – and it will become exceedingly difficult to win._ She watched him. _Then again,_ she thought, _if I do not let him win often enough, it will be even more difficult to win – in the long game. And I am decidedly more interested in the long game. However, I believe we are still setting the rules; so I had best decide what really matters to me, and choose well, because, fair or foul, I shall be stuck with it._ She glanced out the window; faint traces of pink still played along the horizon. _I wonder,_ she thought,_ if this is the sort of mental game he was playing the other day when he sat staring for so long._ And at that, she smiled, and realized that she had him.

She picked up his hand.

Clearly, he initially wanted to pull away, but fought the instinct, and kept his hand in hers. She just waited, until she felt some of the fight leave him.

"I shall do my best not to question you in front of others," Arya said quietly. "I can see that it might influence how others see you; but truthfully, your authority really shouldn't be threatened by other people's questions. It should be an opportunity for you to demonstrate your leadership skills. However, because it matters so much to you, I shall try not to do it. But you should understand that it is not in my nature to obey without question, Tywin."

He grunted. "Never swore to obey," he muttered. Pulling his hand from hers, he rose and walked around the room, lighting the torches.

"I dislike word games, Arya," he said, lighting one and walking to the next. "I say what I mean." Turning to her as he walked, he continued, "When I speak, it is generally in a _forthright_ and _clear_ manner." He moved to the next.

"You are my _wife._" He lit it. "With you, in this room _especially,_" he turned, and his eyes met hers starting at a slow burn that scorched as he held it, "I would prefer not to have to guard what I say." Arya felt slightly ashamed as Tywin continued his measured tread. "I would like to believe," he said, moving to the torch closest to his side of the bed, "that within this room, as within this _marriage,_ I may trust my words with you to the degree that I have, on occasion, trusted my life." He lit the torch.

"But I would certainly rather know now if that belief – if that _faith_ – is unwarranted. So." He turned back to Arya. "You tell me, Arya, and please be clear. May I leave my speech – my _self_ – unguarded when I am with you? Or do I need to… Seven _Bloody HELLS!"_ And Tywin danced away from the torch he had been lighting while Arya levered herself quickly up out of bed and crossed the room to his side. For Tywin, in turning to face Arya, had left his arm hovering by the final torch. Too close, as it turned out. The rancid smell of scorched hair filled the room.

_ "Get back in bed!"_ he roared at her.

"Don't be an idiot, Tywin," she said, quietly, pulling his arm to her and looking at it. She crossed to the sitting room and withdrew several clean cloths from the wardrobe and dunked half of them in the cool water basin, squeezing them out. She returned to the bedroom, where Tywin now lay.

"No more excuses. Get in here," he said.

She went and sat beside him. It was a moderately severe burn; it would blister, but if he was lucky, it wouldn't scar. She laid the cloths one at a time over the burn, covering them at last with a layer of dry cloths. "Should I bother asking if you want Pycelle?"

He gave her a flat, even stare. After a few moments, as she worked, he asked, "Where did you learn to do that?"

She glanced up at him. Their gaze locked for a moment, and then Arya looked back down at his arm, finishing her bandaging. "Many months in bad company, my Lord."

"Don't do that, Arya."

"Then don't give me orders, Tywin."

He pulled his arm out of her grasp and she moved back to her side of the bed.

Several silent moments passed.

Then, almost in unison, they both sighed and looked at one another.

_ 'I never wanted to be a lady, either,'_ Arya could hear her mother's words from a conversation a million years ago ringing in her ears,_ 'but it happened all the same. I never knew I would be your mother, or your brothers', or your sister's. I certainly never expected to love your father. Look at me, Arya,'_ she had said, for in this, as in so many other conversations that Arya wanted no part of – but would now give just about anything to have back – Catelyn knew Arya's mind was outside with Bran. _'The Gods have funny ways of giving us the best gifts in our lives – and very often, they are gifts we never wanted in the first place. But sometimes, we need to give just a little in return, Arya; and, very often, it isn't very pleasant. Now, go make up with your sister.'_ And that had been the end of _that_ particular conversation. Except that it hadn't really been the end – not if she could hear Catelyn once again like this, right here, right now.

_ Well? __Am__ I still a child hiding in a corner? _Arya thought. _Or do I want to make this happen? Because while he will happily screw his little wife blue in here until the wights take Astapor, it will take a woman – not a child – to manage him._

She moved over, and he extended his arm.

_ Bloody fortunate thing that we both were injured on our outside limbs,_ she thought as she moved.

"Yes, Tywin," she said, "you can trust that – barring Varys' little cretins, and the hundreds of eyes that I'm certain Littlefinger still has on his payroll, and so forth – what is said… no, what _happens…_ between us will remain between us, and is what it seems to be. At least, from here on out. And I am sorry. I didn't mean to embarrass you in front of Jaime; I didn't mean to call anything into question; and I certainly didn't mean for you to be hurt. By me _or_ by that bloody torch."

Little by little as Arya spoke, she felt Tywin relaxing, from his fingertips to his chest to his abdomen. Even his breathing seemed to become less… _restrained_. There was more that needed to be said – quite a bit more – but now was not the time. He wouldn't hear her in any case, she knew; he was in too much pain, though he would never admit to it.

Still, something remained. Even at his testiest, Tywin was rarely as reactive as he had been this evening. It really was regrettable that he had just lit the torches – it was dark out, now, and she knew that he would relax better in a dark room. _I need him to talk. I can't leave him like this – for either of our sakes._

"I will also do my best to be obedient; but, Tywin, may I ask you something?"

He hesitated, tensing again.

"Tywin, I promise, I'm not trying to trap you." She gazed up at him and he sighed.

"What is it, Arya?"

"Is there anyone else whose primary job is to take care of you? To watch out for you, for your best interests and yours alone? To _love_ you, Tywin? Is there anyone else like that?"

"Many."

"I thought you didn't like word games. I am not talking about servants or guards, Tywin, and you know it."

He looked at her. "All right. No."

"No, there isn't. And there certainly isn't anyone else who has _sworn_ to do those things out of love for you, so _if_ I am on the occasion a bit less obedient than the many very obedient minions you have, perhaps you will remember that before you bite my head off."

And with that, she sat up, swung her legs out of bed, and proceeded to extinguish the torches he had just lit.

Tywin sighed.

She came back to bed and moved in beside him again.

"I assume there was a reason for that?"

"Yes. There was."

She could almost _hear_ him gritting his teeth.

_ "And?"_

"Tywin… do you _ever_ just trust anyone?"

"Trust gets people killed, Arya."

"All right, my Lion; but not tonight, it doesn't. Not in here, not between us. We just established that." She put her head on his shoulder.

He just lay there, rigid as a board.

She took his far arm, being careful of the bandages, and put it over her, while she began stroking his side. And she waited.

Nothing.

"Just feel, Tywin," she whispered.

It took a long time, but he started to melt. She moved up and put her head on his chest.

"Now," she whispered, "tell me."

And he did.

In dribs and drabs he did. Slowly, at first, but with growing momentum, like an ineluctable spring thaw, he told her. And none of it was good.

He started with the easiest part. "I know where Sansa is." Arya thought that was wonderful, until he told her that Littlefinger had her, _and_ Tyrion, and was negotiating what he thought was an appropriate price.

Then things became bad.

A town – an entire _town_ – in the North, some four or five days' travel from one of the Easternmost castles of the Wall, had fallen. To wights.

They couldn't be certain how old the news was.

Then things became _really_ bad.

"Cersei is gone," Tywin said, his voice a low rumble in the dark. They had already been talking for over an hour, maybe two.

Arya was rather proud of the fact that she confined her reaction to a tensing of her muscles.

"Arya. I'll find her," he said, rubbing her arm.

"I know you will," she replied quietly; though she couldn't help but wonder how Cersei had escaped at all.

But the devastating news came in the heavy silence that followed. Where Tywin should have been assuring Arya of what he would do to get Cersei back – or at least to address any one of the myriad other catastrophes that had just dropped onto Arya's marriage bed – there was only silence. And then she knew.

In later years, Arya could never say how she knew, only that she did.

And so, rather than ask 'What else,' Arya just lay there, knowing that he was pretending, just as she was. Only now, she also had a little more insight both into their earlier argument and into Tywin himself. _All it was…_ she thought, in the icy moments before the words were spoken, _was a delaying tactic. He doesn't want to face it any more than I do._

Finally, Arya's basic honesty ended it.

"She took him. Didn't she? Cersei took him with her."

Three heartbeats passed. Four. More.

And then he spoke.

"Yes."


	12. Chapter 10 Of Answers Unwanted

Chapter Ten: Of Answers Unwanted

_Knock._

_ What the…?_ Arya blinked. Tywin had never lit the torches, and had kept the room essentially free of servants since the wedding, so the room was very dark. It couldn't have been more than a few hours since they fell asleep.

_ Knock, knock, knock…_

"Oh, this had better be bloody damn good," Tywin growled as the insistent rapping on the door continued. He snaked his arm out from beneath Arya, swung his lean legs over the edge of the bed, and a few moments later, Arya heard the door opening.

"I don't _care_ what he told you; just – oh, seven hells, come in."

The door closed, and though Arya scooted over to her side of the bed and peeked over the edge, she couldn't make out the face of the person in the sitting room. Tywin was lighting the torches, but that didn't help her see around the edge.

"Are you certain?" Tywin's low grumble sounded. There was a pause. Then, "All right. Bring me that enormous woman from Tarth – the one who fancies herself a knight. Tell her to come armed." Another pause. "I _know_ it's the middle of the night, you bloody idiot; that's what they call it when it gets all _dark_ like this. But unless you can bring both Cersei's tool and the entire _Council_ up here, then I suggest you _get_ her, because I am not _leaving_ here until you _do,_ do you understand me? Now, get _out_!"

The door slammed.

Several minutes later, Tywin came thundering back into the bedroom, fully dressed, armed, and carrying himself with a rare anger. Yet, when he sat at the foot of the bed, it was with an almost tender slow deliberation. He held a light night shift in one fist, Arya saw, and he sat holding it, staring out the windows. She rolled to one side and pushed herself quietly up. She was about to reach for the shift when he took a deep breath and said quietly, "No. Let me. You will fall." He shook the garment out and gathered it in his calloused hands before easing it over her head and each arm. He turned to look back out the window.

When Arya was covered, she pushed herself up further so that she could lean forward, and slowly placed her hand on his back.

He glanced at her.

"You don't _have_ to do this alone, Tywin."

He took a deep breath, and his face relaxed fractionally.

"I forget sometimes," he said quietly, and his words hung in the air for a moment, "that you truly are no longer that child hiding in the corner of the council room." He looked back at her. "Did you really want this, Arya?"

She stared back at him. The light from the sitting room shone through the few light hairs he permitted to remain on his head, casting a nimbus around him.

"What has happened, Tywin?"

"You didn't answer my question."

She shook her head slowly. "I didn't think it was really what was bothering you. Here, help me."

Tywin took their pillows and placed them behind her, propping her up. He sat down again.

"No. Wait. Brienne will be here in a minute, won't she?"

"Yes."

"Light the torches, then, and close the door to the sitting room."

He got up and did as she bid, neither of them realizing – or caring – that she was successfully directing the Lion of Lannister. He pulled the door, leaving it slightly ajar. "She'll just knock if I leave it closed; this way, at least I can tell her to close it."

Arya nodded, and Tywin came and sat.

"Did I ever tell you about the day my father was put in the dungeons?" She hadn't, and she knew it; she had told Tywin very little of her life between leaving the Red Keep and meeting him at Harrenhal. But she needed a way to get his attention.

"Arya, I asked…"

"I know what you asked," Arya interrupted, not unkindly.

The air went out of Tywin; it just… _left_ him. People didn't interrupt him, or contradict him, or order him about. They just… _didn't_. Except that Arya was doing exactly that, and didn't seem the least bothered by it; further, she seemed to expect him not to be bothered by it either. Her eyes had not left his since he sat.

"No," he finally said. "No, you never did."

"There were Lannister guards everywhere, attacking everyone. Nobody knew what was going on. Well – nobody except the Lannister guards, I guess. You understand, they had my sister. They had my sister, and I had to leave her, and I _knew_ she'd never survive them. They had my _father_. But I got out. And I _made it_. But to do it, to get from that day to this, I had to be smart, and I had to be strong. I had to put away "I can't" and "I won't". There wasn't anyone to make me do anything; if I didn't do it, I'd die, that was all, and I knew it – right from the very first minute I saw those guards, I knew it. I'd die, or be raped, or cut, or… whatever." Arya's voice took on a bit of a slow, faraway quality. "But, you see, I'm here. I had to do whatever it took – but I'm here. I had to wade through dog shit, and human shit, and eat pigeons that I caught myself, and get lice, and wear the same thing every single day until I smelled so bad that even the dogs wouldn't come near me…" Arya had never spoken of this. Never. Not to anyone. She had rarely thought of it. She had the names; but having the names in her head didn't mean that she replayed what had happened. Her eyes began to fill, and she set her jaw. She narrowed her eyes and clenched her teeth.

"I lived with rapists, and killers, and torturers and Gods only know what else. I shaved my head, and went without bathing for days at a time. I had to kill. I had to kill a _kid._ I once stabbed someone so many times that Sandor Clegane had to pull me off him – the bloody _Hound _had to pull me off him." She glanced at him and let out a single chuckle. "Beside all that," she whispered, "it didn't seem so bad, coming to work for you. It almost seemed foreordained, somehow. Destined."

She took another deep breath. "And, you know, along the way, one by one, I lost my family. I lost my father, when his head went rolling off the block. I lost one brother when he went beyond the Wall, and two more who I could have protected – who I _should_ have protected – when they were chased out of our _home_, and now they are Gods only knows where, wandering around in the North with the white walkers after them and only a half-wit named Hodor and some frog-eaters to protect them. I don't even think they're together any more, but I can't be…" she glanced at Tywin and then glanced away again. "…I can't be sure. I lost my last brother and my mother to that _disgusting_ display that you…" she glared at him, a single tear forming in the corner of one eye as she set her teeth, "…_sanctioned_, and I _should_ have been there _with_ them, fighting with them, but I wasn't, because I was with _you_, and then, finally, I lost Sansa. I lost my sister Sansa, when she disappeared with Tyrion after he tried to kill you." She scrubbed at one eye and glanced at the door, where she noticed the form of Brienne of Tarth, standing there silently, tears in her eyes. She didn't care – everyone knew anyway.

But apparently, Tywin did, because he saw her glance and turned. "Do you mind?" he growled.

"I'm sorry, I was just…" Brienne started, clearly uncomfortable. "I'll wait outside." She closed the door.

Tywin looked back at Arya, who had taken a few deep breaths in the interim. She was gazing out the window.

"Nobody – _nobody –_ _forces_ me to do _anything_, my Lord of Lannister. Not without an _awful _lot of effort. Not me. I'm too strong for that. And you would do best not to assume that you are the only one who has reasons for the things they do, or the capacity to plan or use forethought..." And now she looked directly at him, and he saw the wolf in her gray eyes. "…or learn. I am a Stark, my Lord – a Stark of Winterfell, of the North," and she was silently crying now. "And we Starks are a strong people; you cannot break us, no matter how many 'Red Weddings' you orchestrate. And I am, as far as I know, the only Stark left; so, although you cannot break us, clearly, you can pick us off… one… by… one." And she looked away, but she wasn't done, and he waited.

She took a deep breath. "Do you have a handkerchief?"

He handed her one, and she dried her eyes, and took another deep breath. "So, you see, when you ask if I wanted this, it is a bit of a complicated question, and the answer depends rather a lot on what you mean by 'this.' So I will tell you one thing more, Tywin Lannister. Are you listening? Because, although I am a foolish girl who will likely say this more than once, more than you want to hear it, it really is important to me that you hear me now." She met his eyes, and was once again surprised to find there an expression she had never yet seen. There was a crease between his eyebrows that spoke almost of… concern. Regret.

"I am listening, Arya."

"Good. When I first met you, I hated you. _Hated_ you. I wanted you dead at my feet, and frankly, was quite capable of making you so. But something stayed my hand. That first day – you probably don't remember – but I remember it quite clearly. You were going over troop placement with some of your men, and you said, 'come here, girl; you might as well learn something.'"

He nodded. "I do remember, actually."

"And you pointed to…"

"The Vale of Arryn," Tywin said, his eyes traveling hers.

"Yes. And you asked me – you barked at me, really – to tell you what it was, and I told you…"

"You told me _everything._ The name, the Lord, how many people were there, the primary exports…"

"Yes. And when I was through, you nodded. And then you told some poor kid how stupid he was for not knowing, when even your cupbearer knew…"

"I _asked _you because I knew you would know. I knew who you were, Arya."

"Yes. Well, I decided not to kill you that day. And the next day, it was…"

"Castle Black. I couldn't have you leaving, Arya; you must know that."

"Did you know about Jaqen?"

"Who?"

Arya nodded, satisfied. "Well. Never mind. In any case, so it went, day by day, until it just became habit, not killing you. And then, we came back to the Red Keep, and things went…"

"Insane."

"Yes. And for a long time, I hadn't the faintest idea what to do; whether to stay, or to leave. I was very, _very _angry for the longest time. I prayed for you to die for taking Robb and mother like that; they didn't deserve to die that way, Tywin."

She looked at him evenly, and they sat in silence, until Arya continued. "And then it happened. Tyrion shot you, and suddenly, it was all in my hands, and I… had to decide. And I thought about letting you die. I really did. I could have just turned and left you there. But by then… I don't know. I couldn't do it. Not like that. I couldn't let you go like that. So I figured I'd just do what I could do, and then let the Gods decide." She glanced at him.

"But then, you see…" She looked away. "You know, it's funny. Once you've saved someone's life, you owe them something. You have their lives in your hands, and…" and she met his eyes again. "I never thought about killing you again after that. And then, this last year…" She trailed off, thinking of the looks and the words. She thought about the touches that just brushed against each other, each in turn innocent, but always leaving her wondering. Always with room for doubt, but always leaving her wondering. A glance held a fraction of a second too long; an intonation she couldn't decipher; his hand brushing hers on his goblet.

Tywin took a deep breath and pursed his lips. Arya was surveying his face intently.

"I _do_ love you, Tywin, and if I didn't, I'd have fought you every step of the way from the proposal through to the… well… what comes after. All of which you will probably believe more as you get to know me. You said, when you asked me to marry you, 'No man knows you better.' Well, that may be true, but only because no man knows me at all. _Yes,_ I wanted to marry you; with all my heart, I wanted to marry you. But if you are expecting me to be Lady Tra-La-La, you are going to be sorely disappointed. And you have to know that there is a _lot _more to this marriage than an innocent girl in a corner casting doe-eyed looks at you from across the room, or we are in for a _hell _of a lot of trouble."

He chuckled a little and took her hand. "I think I am coming to realize that. But give me at least a little credit – I would never have expected someone who stood behind me as my cupbearer for four years to emerge as – what did you say? Lady Tra-La-La?" He kissed her hand, and gazed at her for several moments. "I think," he said quietly, "we may have some talking to do."

She turned her focus to her lap and nodded.

Tywin cleared his throat and continued, "But not right now. Right now, I have something of a rather urgent nature to deal with."

"Yes; what _is_ going on?"

He took a deep breath. "We have found the person responsible for the attempt on your life."

Arya waited.

Tywin squeezed her hand, then looked down at the hand he held. Finally, he met her eye once again. "Cersei."

"Bloody _hell_, Tywin."

"Yes. I shall be back as soon as I can, dear. And, Arya…"

She looked up inquisitively as he rose.

"If Brienne informs me that you moved one _hair's_ breadth from that bed, so _help_ me, you will spend the next seven _winters_ there. Clear?"

"Yes, Tywin."

"Good." He smiled. "You might _try_ getting some rest, but I know better than to expect that." He reached for the door handle.

"Tywin?"

He turned.

"I love you."

He stood very still for a moment. "Thank you," he said quietly. "I needed to hear that. I love you, too, Arya." He made a move to open the door and then turned his head back to her. "Arya."

"Yes?"

"I will get them home. As many as I can, I will."

And with that, he was gone.


	13. Chapter 14A Of Ignorance And Stupidity A

Chapter Fourteen: Of Ignorance and Stupidity

"Sansa," Tyrion said, hurrying into the room.

"Hm?"She said muzzily, still mostly asleep.

_"Sansa,_ love, wake up, you must wake _up."_ He started shaking her.

She opened her eyes. "What is it?"

Seeing that she was awakening, he went to their wardrobe and started packing their things hurriedly. "Baelish is dead," he said. He was pulling clothes feverishly into a pack. _Two… no, three pairs should do…_

"Oh." She laid back down. He continued rifling through their things until… _'Oh?'_

He straightened, tunic in hand. _What… in Baelor's Great Heaven…_

He turned slowly back towards her. She lay on her side, eyes closed.

Tyrion went _cold_. He put the tunic down and stepped slowly to the bed. "'Oh?'"

She opened her eyes. "You didn't _want_ to go back to King's Landing, did you?"

He stood there, staring at her, while Westeros reassembled around him. He blinked a few times. _I… clearly have no idea what just happened. But I do know that if we do not get out of here __right__ now, I am a dead man. But… I also know that if I do not figure this out, I am likely to regret it for a long, long time._

"Sansa?"

"Yes?"

Tyrion took a deep breath. "What in the… why… what…" He breathed out and closed his eyes. He tried again. "Sansa, please, love, can you just tell me what has happened?"

"It's all right, Tyrion; come back to bed. You're Lord of the Eyrie now. If your father doesn't know by now, he will soon."

Tyrion's heart stopped, and then made a very serious attempt to jump out of his throat. "And you think that _helps?_ You think that makes it _better?"_ He couldn't help it. His voice squeaked. "Did you… You _killed him?"_

She sat up. "Apparently."

_Oh, Gods. Gods, Gods, Gods. Seven bloody hells, my wife has killed the spymaster of Westeros. The financier of most of Westeros. Those parts that my father has not financed. And she has no idea – No. Idea. – what she has done. None. None at all. Where did I put that blasted wine? Not the red, but that new pink stuff with the kick._ He started shuffling through his desk and wardrobe and bedside table.

"Tyrion?"

"Just… Just a minute, dear." He moved hangers aside and then went to their trunk. _Aha._ He pulled it out and started pouring, noting with interest that his hand was shaking. He peered out their window, looking for clouds of ravens; but of course, they would already have left. He downed a cup. A second. _My life is forfeit anyway._ He began on a third before he started feeling it. _I. Am. A. Dead. Man._ He belched. _Well. A dead dwarf._

"Tyrion, it was my sister's suggestion."

Tyrion turned. _Arya? Little Arya thought this up?_

"And Petyr himself… you _know_ he had been teaching me all about his little 'Game' the whole way here."

"Yes, well, I do not think that this is precisely what he had in mind," Tyrion said, taking another deep swallow. "They will kill us for this," he continued. Then, with a conciliatory tilt of his head, he said, "Well. They will kill _me_, in any case."

She got out of bed and walked to his side. She hesitated for a moment, then put a hand on his shoulder. "No. They will not. Littlefinger's men… I have been bribing them."

He turned to face her. "What?"

"The whole way here. Did you not notice, every night, a few men would just slip in and out of camp, coming to talk to him?"

Tyrion turned his head. "Yeeesss…."

"And, Tyrion… you probably should count your coin _every_ night."

Tyrion wasn't certain _what_ exactly he was feeling at that moment, as he came to realize that his wife was neither as naïve nor as foolish as both he and apparently Baelish had assumed, and that she may, in fact, be a great deal more dangerous than either of them had ever given her credit for. But in the event, she had saved his life – and likely hers, in a fashion, as well – _and_, possibly, though he really needed to look into it, given him the Eyrie, so he was more grateful than anything.

He couldn't help it; it happened, really, without thinking. He kissed her.

And, much to his surprise, though she was initially startled, she kissed him back. Sweetly.

"Walk with me," he said.

_Something is wrong,_ Brienne thought. _Very, very wrong._ "Just a minute," she said. She strapped her sword to her side and her dagger to her boot. Glancing up at Jaime, she caught the slight smile that still crept to his eyes when she did this. _Well, screw it,_ she thought. _I am who I am, and I have never pretended to be anyone different._

She pulled the strap tight around her calf, secured the buckle, and straightened, then shrugged her cloak around her and pulled the door closed behind them. They walked for a few steps, and then she asked, "What is it?"

He shook his head. "Not here."

She nodded.

They walked down to the training yard, where the clamor of sword on sword was incredible. They stood side by side. Jaime began pointing at individual couples and groups as he began talking, his mouth close to her ear so that it would be difficult to read his words.

"Don't. Move. Just watch them. Tommen is gone."

Brienne couldn't help it. She gasped. But she felt his hand in the small of her back, and set her features. She turned her head to his. "Tywin?"

He shook his head slightly. "I don't know. It isn't like him. I doubt it. But this thing with the Stark girl… that isn't like him, either. He would have me believe that Cersei was behind the attempt on her life – and possibly his own as well."

_Cersei._ Brienne still couldn't think the woman's name without feeling a shock of unwelcome, irritating hatred.

"Was she?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I am looking into it. But regardless, Tommen is gone."

She examined his features. "Will you challenge him for it?"

He met her look, and then smiled, and a part of her melted. "I would never win, Brienne. If I had Tyrion, maybe. But on my own…" He shook his head. "No. But things are likely to become… unpleasant… here in a bit. You may want to leave while you can."

She gave him a sharp look. "Do you really believe I would do that? Where would I go, Jaime? No." She looked back to the yard, pointing at a pair of very young trainees. "I shall stay. Besides," she said, "Arya will need someone at her side, I think."

He smiled again and nodded. "I thought you would say something like that. Do you want a more… official… position?"

She arched her eyebrows at him. "Like what? There are no women Kings- or Queensguards."

"There haven't been. Not typically, no." He had a wry look on his face; the same look he often had when he had just said something he felt to be amusing.

"Jaime. It would never happen."

He began to look serious. "It might, Brienne. Consider it. The only thing is," and he leaned very close to her ear, _"they can neither marry nor have children."_ And he brushed his lips very lightly against her ear and left the training yard, cloak swirling behind him, as Brienne's heart first stopped and then raced._ That didn't just happen,_ she thought._ That did __not__ just happen. Not after waiting so long. He cannot just have done that to me._

Brienne turned slowly and followed Jaime, walking through the chill yard towards the city._ I need to think. That wasn't fair. You can't offer someone two things you know they want desperately – and then tell them they can only have one or the other. You just cannot do that._ She worked her jaw and set out through the castle gates.

Sunlight poured through the apartment windows.

"Please, Tywin."

"No. Hold still. It looks good, but I want to get this tight."

"Tywin, it is a glorious day outside. This is potentially the very _last _day that we can walk in relative anonymity together. _Please."_

"No. Stop moving. If it can open on the outside, and it is still quite able to do that, then it can open inside where I cannot see it. And there is all sorts of filth out there that can get in here and infect this." He knotted the white bandage.

Arya glared at him.

"People much more ferocious than you have given me far worse looks than that, my dear. There." He turned and walked back to his desk.

She stood, shaking out the night clothes.

"Arya."

She took a deep breath. "Tywin, I need to stretch. I have been in that blasted bed for almost a week. You are a warrior. Have you _ever_ been in a bed for that long? Even when you had your guts falling out of you, you were out of bed before then, I think."

He glanced at her. "All right. But not for long."

"Thank you." She went to the window and gazed out, realizing that she actually had never seen the view. "Tywin, you can see almost the whole city from here," she said. He walked up behind her and laid his hand in the curve at the small of her back. She arched against him, enjoying his touch. Then she glanced at him. "Tywin…" He looked back at her. She met his gaze, then shook her head, directing her focus back out the window – but she saw nothing, and he noticed. Several moments passed. His look sharpened. His hand tightened a bit on her back. She glanced back at him, then turned away. Surveying the room, she walked to the chair at the desk, and sat. He turned on one boot and prowled to her, coming to stop over her, hands clutched behind his back.

"Tell me," he said. "Now."

She glanced up at him and then back at her hands, which seemed to be grasping themselves of their own accord.

_No,_ she thought. _Calm. I am to be queen. _She glanced back up at him, and knew – _knew – _what it must mean to be on his Council, in his poor graces. _No. Not queen; Queen. __His__ Queen. I am to be Queen Arya, and I __will__ be calm._

"Arya," he growled.

She glanced back up at him, and stood – only he moved in too close, and she fell back into her seat.

His green-gold eyes were narrowed as calculations and assessments flashed through his mind. She could almost _hear_ them, but this was the first time _she_ was the subject. _At least that I am aware of. _She shifted in the seat uncomfortably, then sighed. _There is no point; this is only getting worse the longer I keep my mouth shut._

"When you told me about Sansa," she said, waiting to see what that did to his mental processing. There was a very brief flash of surprise, but that was all.

"Yes."

"I… was not surprised. I was only surprised at how much you knew." She waited, trying to relax, trying to act as if that were everything. _Perhaps he will think I am done. Most likely not, but perhaps. It would likely be best for me to tell him all of it regardless, even should he let this lie…_

"And?"

Arya sighed. "And… Let me ask you something, Tywin." She didn't wait for permission, because she was going to ask in any case. And… it was done, probably; so, really, she had to tell him. There was no telling what would happen if she did _not_. "What would you do if Tyrion were here?"

He stiffened. There was a white line around his lips.

"Would he even _make_ it here, Tywin? Or would he have some… accident… on the way?"

And now he looked truly frightening. Arya pushed the chair back and rose. He still towered over her, but she knew how this was done – she had watched often enough. She turned to move past him back to the window; but he was much, _much_ better than she was at this – though she was learning – and he grasped her arm. Not painfully, but firmly enough that she couldn't move.

"All of it, Arya. Now. No more fooling around. Tell me."

She straightened, her face losing all expression, and she met his gaze. They stood like that for several moments. They both knew that Arya would give; but she had a point to make. Still, she also knew that a storm would follow what she told him, so it would be best not to anger him beforehand.

"All right, Tywin," she said finally, trying unsuccessfully to pull her arm from his grasp. "I cannot be certain yet; I will likely not know for several days. But Sansa has been buying Littlefinger's men since she left here with Tyrion."

He was watching her intently. She felt like prey.

"She… _may_… have…" Arya hesitated, suddenly nauseated. _Oh, Gods. This seemed like such a wonderful idea at the time… but, then again, at the time…_ She took a deep breath.

Tywin was working his jaw. Arya bit her lip.

Tywin was done. "She may have _what?"_ he growled.

"Poisoned him."

Tywin took a sharp breath, his jaw jerking up momentarily. "Poisoned _whom?"_

Arya realized that she had left that in question. "Littlefinger," she whispered. He dropped her arm and stared at her.

"And she came up with this idea all on her own, did she?"

"Not… exactly. No."

"And did she just happen to _have_ some poison? Or did someone that I know get some to her?"

She gazed at him, a flush rising up her neck into her face.

"I see." He was calculating again, running through possibilities and ramifications as he stared at her. He finally shook his head. "I don't know," he rumbled quietly, "whether to be livid, fascinated, or relieved." He turned to the desk and picked up the thick stack of parchment laid there, saying as he walked, "I suppose that I am a combination of all three." Arriving at the desk, he continued, "I am certainly surprised. Perhaps _stunned_ would be a better word. And it takes quite a bit to surprise me, Arya. Although I am coming to believe," he glanced at her, "that I ought to adjust my expectations on that front somewhat. At least for a while." He turned to face her and held the stack of parchment up, arching his eyebrows as he did, for emphasis.

"This one," he said, and licked his thumb, separating the parchment and placing it face down on the desk. "And this one," he repeated the process. "_And_ this one," _thump_ went the parchment on the desk. Again and again he continued the process, until perhaps fifty pieces of parchment laid on his desk and only perhaps four or five remained separated out in his hand. Each time, he met her eye, and each time, he returned his gaze to his hand and the pile without explanation. Finally, the entire stack had been sorted, though of course Arya had no idea into what groups. He stood there, now leaning idly against the desk while Arya waited uncomfortably before him. He held the few pieces that remained in both of his hands, bouncing them on his thighs while he regarded her with pursed lips.

_"All_ of those, Arya," he said, indicating the pile on the desk with a nod of his head, "came from, or related to, one of Littlefinger's men." He gazed at her, waiting. "All. Of. Them." He turned to the desk and laid the other stack crosswise over the first before turning back to Arya, who really didn't know where he was going with this. "It should bother you, Arya, that you do not see the significance of this, when you have ordered the assassination of this man." He straightened. "All of those documents relate in some way to Petyr Baelish. And yet, I am surprised by what you tell me." He walked to Arya. "Which tells me," he said quietly, "that either your sister is _very_ good," and he stood over her, staring at her unblinkingly, "or," he whispered, "that she is now _dead."_

He turned and walked to the window. Arya felt as if she had been doused in ice water. "What…" she walked slowly to Tywin. "What do you mean?"

"Arya," he said, "I am tremendously relieved that it is not worse than this. If," he said evenly, "for example, it had worked. But had it worked, I would certainly have heard _something_ of it." He spun to face her. "What in the seven _hells_ were you thinking? How could you do something so _incomparably _stupid_?_"

That did it for Arya. "Stupid. All right. It took me some time to _find_ her, and then to make certain I had her and only her. By which point, it was only a matter of time before Littlefinger forced his hand and either made her marry him or sold Tyrion off to you or both. And either way, Sansa would be no better off, really, than she was here. Well… maybe better off than with Joffrey, but… she was never comfortable here, Tywin, you _know_ she wasn't. And the Vale is rightly hers, now, anyway…"

"How in the _hells_ do you decide _that?"_ he interrupted, now growing angry as well. He had not really been emotionally invested before this point, she realized – merely spectacularly intense. But he was becoming angry now. "And, more than _anything_ else, why – _why_ – did you not talk to me about this?"

_"We weren't married, yet!_ _Gods,_ Tywin, you had no idea who I _was!"_

"Of _course_ I did! I already told you that; besides which, if you please, I am neither blind nor stupid."

"Well, I didn't know that." He reddened, and she was quick to clarify. "I mean that I didn't know that you knew who I was, and," her face took on a look of incredulity as she swept across the room, swinging her arms with her words, "I wouldn't have told you about this _regardless!"_

"You wouldn't," he said quietly.

She rounded quickly on him. "Clearly not; I _didn't_, did I?"

He was standing very still. "No," he said, "you did not, and I would very much like to know why."

"Really," Arya said sarcastically. "Look what it got me," gesturing toward him.

He stepped slowly toward her. "And," he said, "if I am correct, and this little…" he continued on the path to her, step by step, "…_game_ of yours has ended in your sister's death, what then, my girl, hm?" He stood over her, now, gazing down at her. "What if, in the intervening time, while you have been… _sequestering_ this little secret of yours, you could have been saving her life?"

She glared at him. "Get. Out. Of. My. Way."

He stepped to one side, and she brushed by him, walking to her bedside table, where she retrieved a scroll imprinted with Sansa's wolf and jonquil seal. It was clearly Sansa's hand, and read, _'Dinner with Little Ones tonight; hope to be Mother Bird by morning.'_ She had just received it yesterday; hopefully, the deed was done by now. She turned and thrust the scroll at Tywin, who took it in at a glance. She spoke as his eyes rose. "Sansa is _not _dead. My Lord."

"You still do not know that," he said, but now he sounded a trifle uncertain. Then his look sharpened. He walked to her. "When," he whispered, _desperately _quietly, "did you obtain this… _missive?"_

She said nothing.

He moved toe to toe with her. She stepped back, but could only move a very little bit, because the backs of her legs were up against her bedside table.

"Arya?" his voice was a deathly low growl.

Arya was fairly certain that her next words would be followed by the feel of his jaws on her throat. She swallowed and reflexively rubbed her throat, her fingers brushing the bandage he had just replaced. She tasted the slightest tang of guilt in her saliva. His pupils were dilating. _Fear can be overcome,_ she thought. _Fear is a response._ "Yesterday," she replied. She would have preferred to state it confidently and clearly; but the word came out in a high-pitched, quiet, squeak.

"Did you receive a messenger of whom I have been not made aware?"Again, it was only the rumble in his voice that kept the words from being whispers.

Arya blinked. She moistened her lips. Or would have, had she had any saliva. "No, my Lord."

From somewhere far off came the sounds of the practice yard. _Somewhere,_ Arya thought, _someone is making noise beyond that. And, I expect, in this very chamber, very shortly, there will be quite a bit of…_

"Then _how,_ exactly, did you _come_ by it?"

Arya's eyes darted around the room, but there really was no escape; he had her pinned. Her heart truly was racing. She swallowed against sand. She glanced back up at him – and that was her end, because she could not look away again. Which was absurd. But it was true all the same.

"I… retrieved it," she whispered.

"I am certain I did not understand you correctly," he replied, "would you please repeat that for me? My ears are perhaps not what they once were." A muscle twitched in his jaw.

"I retrieved it. My Lord."

"Well," he said quietly, "that cannot be. Because that would mean," _SLAM!_ His palm, scroll crushed, came slamming down on the bedside table, caging her between him, the table, and the bed, _"that you DEFIED ME!"_ Arya jumped as Tywin screamed at her for the first time.

_Not… exactly… unexpected,_ she thought, as her heart bounced around in her chest.

"And from which _nest _of _safety _did you _'RETRIEVE'_ your critical little document?" He was still shouting.

Arya needed to breathe to answer him – which meant that she needed to stop holding the breath that she hadn't realized she was holding. "The… The Dancing Orchid. My Lord."

He turned purple.

Arya truly believed he might explode and die on the spot.

_And if he doesn't, then he is going to kill __me__ instead._

He stood over her breathing shallowly and quickly for several seconds before whispering, "Do you know… what the most _fucking_ irritating thing – the most thrice _damned IRONIC THING –_ about this entire_ damned_ situation is to me… right… at… this… _INSTANT?"_

She shook her head frantically.

"The very _best _thing for both of us right now would be for me to leave this room. But I can't. I have ensured that there is absolutely no one who will bother us. All. Day. Long. Other than the food which will arrive, on time, with predictable and almost annoying regularity, _No One_ will come up here – today. Tonight. At all. So, I cannot leave." He started fiercely pointing at the door. "I cannot go get someone else to guard my _fucking_ wife who hasn't got the _fucking _sense that the Gods gave a _fucking GNAT _because I trapped myself in here so _fucking_ WELL…" He spun and went back to the desk, where he poured himself a second goblet of wine. "…so that I can spend some _time,"_ he took a series of deep swallows, _"talking with HER!"_

"Well, we _are_ talking," Arya said.

He slammed the goblet down, and wine sloshed out over his hand.

"Bloody HELL!" He stormed into the sitting room, holding his hand up. He came back in, wiping it off with a cloth. "What _else_ is there, Arya? Hm? What the fuck else is there that you haven't told me? In how many other ways have you defied me? Did you not _just _tell me, not an hour past, that you had been in that bed for nearly a week?"

"I didn't want you to _know, _Tywin!"

"And you think that makes it _better?" _he roared. "Who was it who was making a bloody damn stink about not being a liar?"

Arya flushed. Tywin turned and stormed to one of the marble supporting columns, leaning against it with his back to her, arm outstretched with his palm against the stone, one leg extended behind him. He laid his head on his arm.

She crossed the room and placed a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off. "No."

She slowly lowered her hand, hurt. "Tywin, I…"

He shook his head. "No."

She waited for a moment, eyebrows drawn together. _I can't just leave this. _"Tywin, I needed to…"

He rounded on her. _"I said, 'NO,' woman!"_

"And I said that…"

_"Dammit, Arya! Shut UP!"_

_ "NO! _I had things I needed to _attend_ to, and if you won't let me _speak_, then you have _no right_ to be angry when you end up not _knowing things!"_

He was bright purple as he pushed past her to take another drink. "You are going to be the death of me." He swallowed. "Do you know that?"

Arya's face was still tight with anger.

"You have a point," he said. "So tell me. Tell me, because I absolutely will be fascinated to know. What in the Seven _Hells_ was so _fucking_ important that you took not only your own life, but possibly the life of an unborn child, unguarded, into a _fucking WHOREHOUSE_ in the middle of the _city_ against_ my Express COMMAND?!"_ He was shouting again.

"I have _people_ there," she said tightly. "They are _my_ people, under _my_ protection, and they are _my_ responsibility, whether you 'COMMAND' me to stay here or _not._ My Lord. And if you _restrict_ my access to them, then I have no choice but to work _around_ you. My. Lord."

He was flabbergasted, and she knew it. She could see it in the confusion in his eyes, in the slackening in his mouth, in the way he dropped his shoulders, and in the drop in his heel._ Aha. Surprise, my Lord. Well. There will be a few more where THAT came from, I am afraid._ "And, furthermore, if I tell you everything about everything, all the time, I put lives at risk – yours included, I might add. So. Yes, because I know that this is _top_ on your list of Lannister Pride Priority Questions, there are quite a few things that I have not told you. But, no, none of them are truly relevant to our marriage at this point in time. And every word – other than the bit about the bed, which you have to admit _was_ somewhat forced – that I have spoken to you since we have been married, has been true."

"That… establishment… belongs to Littlefinger," he said quietly, almost hopefully.

"No, my Lord."

He was incredulous.

"I do not pretend to spend any time there," Arya was quick to say. "But I had an opportunity to meet a… person… once. She was in some… need. And it was due, in no small measure, to Littlefinger's… practices. I became aware that she was not the only one who underwent certain predicaments… from time to time. So… I bought Littlefinger out. I make considerably less than he did, I am sure. But the women there are safe. My Lord. And… they do me some small services. From time to time."

"Do they, perhaps, assist with messages?"

"That is one of their functions. Yes."

"And… substances?"

"My Lord…"

"Arya," he growled, "I don't pretend to know how far or how deep this goes. But I intend to find out. Is this where you got the poison?"

"I didn't get Sansa the poison. My Lord. I merely told her how to discern what it was, and where Littlefinger typically kept such things."

He stared.

The day was moving on towards afternoon.

Arya walked past Tywin. He grasped her arm again. She looked at him and sighed. "Tywin," she said quietly, "I merely want to go sit on the bed. An hour ago, that was all you wanted from me."

"An hour ago," he growled, "I did not realize that you were a whoremonger and an assassin and Gods only know what else."

"No," she agreed, "you didn't. May I go sit on the bed? And, by the way, I am not a 'whoremonger.' The ladies who stay at the Orchid stay for only as long as they wish to stay. They largely determine their own prices, their own clients, and their own services. I help with the rent, and I help keep decent midwives and guards there. Please let me go. You are hurting me."

Tywin released her arm, and she went back to her side of the bed, where she propped up her pillows and settled down onto them. He was looking at her strangely, as if he had never seen her before.

"I _told_ you, Tywin: I _learn_. I pay attention, and I learn, and you have to think to yourself who it is that you have surrounded me with these past four years. It hasn't been a group of quiet Septas gossiping in a corner."

"No," he agreed quietly, "it has not been that. But, Arya… prostitution?"

"_Yes,_ Tywin, prostitution. It is the prostitutes in your city who end up dead and who end up populating the city with begging children who also end up either prostituting or dead – or both. I am trying to _stop_ it." She looked sincerely at him. "Many. Months. In. Bad. Company."

"I am going to have to rethink this whole arrangement," Tywin said, his voice a low rumble. He glanced up at her. "Oh, Arya, no. That is not what I meant. But…" He pursed his lips and took a deep breath, then came over to where she sat, pushing her feet over before settling by them. "I expected that we would have some issues to address. I did not realize, when I was speaking with the Small Council, that you were doing some experimenting on the side."

"Experimenting?" Arya felt somewhat insulted.

He laid a hand on her leg. "Mm. Yes. Well. It is going to have to stop, but I need to know exactly what 'it' consists of before I go about dismantling things."

She sat forward. _"Dismantling_ things?"

He sighed. Then he stood. "And, Arya," he growled, "you had better hope this whole thing with Baelish has not happened. Because _that_ whole mess," he pointed to the desk without looking "came in a matter of two days. If he is dead, Arya… Gods help us. You two may destabilize all of Westeros out of sheer…" he shook his head, "I cannot decide whether to call it ignorance or stupidity."

Arya straightened and turned in the bed, placing her feet back over the edge. "Westeros will survive Littlefinger's absence, _My Lord._ As I told you once before, _Anyone can be killed. Any. One."_

"That does not make it a good _idea,_ Arya!" He came back to the edge of the bed, where he towered over her. "Especially," he bent down until he was as close as he could possibly be without actually touching her, "_right _NOW!" he roared. He turned and stormed back to the desk, where he drank several more swallows. "_Gods,_ Arya! Do you have any _idea_ how much more incomparably difficult this makes things? Great Baelor's Ghost!"

"I understand that it makes things more of a challenge for _you,_ Tywin; but I think that at the same time, it will make things significantly easier for Sansa!"

"And to whom do you owe your allegiance, Arya?" he asked dangerously.

"Oh, calm down, Tywin. My only point is that I was _trying_ to make things easier for my sister, who has had a bloody miserable time of it. You should be happy. The Vale will go to a Lannister, now."

"If you honestly think that I will allow that… lascivious little… _swine_ to rule _anything_ short of an _anthill_ beneath my colors, then you have learned very little."

"Why do you hate him so much? What in the world did he ever do to you?"

"Ha!" Tywin turned. "Other than try to kill me, you mean."

"Well. Yes. But you hated him before that, which was _why…_"

"Arya, if you mean to take his part…"

She sighed._ This is going nowhere fast. I need… I need him to calm down, is what I need._ She walked into the sitting room and opened the wardrobe. She began getting dressed. She heard his measured steps coming around the doorway.

"What," he asked slowly and quietly, "are you doing?"

"Going for a walk. Would you care to come?"

He placed his goblet down on the small table by the door. He fisted his hands and opened them again. Then he folded his arms.

Arya turned to face away from him, rolling her shoulder, pressing on it with her fingers, before starting to pull on her clothes.

"Have. You. Lost. Your. Mind."

She turned, stretching her arms through her sleeves. "Hm?"

"Do you really believe I am going to allow you to walk through that door?"

Arya considered. Then she nodded. "Yes." She finished by pulling on a pair of riding breeches.

"And what madness has overtaken you that makes you believe this?"

"I'm hungry."

"As I told you, food will be here shortly," he growled.

She shrugged and took a few steps toward the door.

_"Arya!"_

"I'm lonely," she said.

His eyes narrowed and his jaw set. "I have gone… to great _lengths…_ to keep you _company_ today."

"You are not much company right now. I was thinking perhaps I would visit Brienne."

His eyes flashed. "You," he said, "are goading me. And I am _not_ in the mood."

"No, Tywin, you're not. And neither am I. I want to get out of here because I am tired of arguing with you. Now, _move._"

He straightened. "I am not arguing. There is nothing to argue." He bent and picked her up. "You," he said, "need to eat more." He turned and carried her to her side of the bed, where he unceremoniously deposited her. He then turned back to the sitting room. Arya heard the door open and close. She smiled. Within a very few minutes, he had returned. "I am very glad to see," he said, "that you possessed the intelligence not to try to leave, as you would have had to pass me on the way. And that would not have been pleasant for you. Food will arrive shortly, and will be left… outside." He walked to the desk and took a drink, gazing at her. He put the goblet down. He leafed through the parchments, though Arya knew that he had them all memorized. He walked into the sitting room. He walked back. He stood by the window and stared out. He came and stood by her and stared down at her. She stared back. He walked back to the sitting room. The door opened and closed. Tywin paced. He came back through the bedroom occasionally, circled through the sitting room, and opened the door. Again and again. Ultimately, the food came, and that gave him something to do, but he just picked at it, and Arya ate nothing at all. Finally, he gave up and came back to the bed. He marched to his side with determination, then stared again at Arya as if daring her to make a comment about it, then sat. She said nothing.

Eventually, he put his arm out, and though she arched an eyebrow at him, she did slide over, keeping her smile entirely unseen._ There,_ she thought. _That is one small thing taken care of. It may have taken an hour to do it, but I got him out of his fighting-persona._ She sighed.

"Who was Jaqen?" Tywin finally asked over her head.

"Pick something else," she responded without looking up at him.

They were silent for several minutes.

"Who is Hodor?"

"Hodor is a simpleton with whom I was raised. He is very gentle and very kind, but the only thing he has ever been able to say is 'Hodor,' so that is what he is called."

"You said your brothers were with him."

Arya was silent.

Tywin's chin was on her head, and she could feel his jaw tightening. She closed her eyes. "Yes," she said, before he could get too annoyed, "I did. Well – at least one of them is with him. I'm not sure if they are together."

"And how is it that you believe this, when the rest of Westeros believes your brothers dead? Understand me, Arya: I do not wish your brothers dead. I merely wish to understand."

"I… am afraid to tell you how I know what I know."

"Is it the same way that you knew about Sansa?"

"No."

"All right. We are back to trust and truth again."

"Nymeria."

"I beg your pardon?"

"My… wolf."

"Aha. I wondered. And your brothers?"

"Also, yes."

"But not Sansa, because…" Arya felt him nod slowly. "I see." He thought for a moment. "Just tell them to come, Arya. Tell them to come to King's Landing."

Arya laughed.

Tywin stilled.

"I'm sorry, Tywin. Forgive me. But they hate you. They hate you, they mistrust you, and they would never – they would _never_ – come. Besides, Jon already has divided loyalties, and Bran… something is happening to Bran that I don't understand."

"What about the other one?"

Arya turned her head up to him. "Rickon?"

"Is that his name?"

"Yes. It is hard to get much sense out of Rickon. I know he is alive and in the North, somewhere, but I don't know where, because _he_ doesn't know where.


	14. Chapter 14B Of Ignorance and Stupidity B

Chapter 14B: Of Ignorance and Stupidity B

_And if he doesn't, then he is going to kill __me__ instead._

He stood over her breathing shallowly and quickly for several seconds before whispering, "Do you know… what the most _fucking_ irritating thing – the most thrice _damned IRONIC THING –_ about this entire_ damned_ situation is to me… right… at… this… _INSTANT?"_

She shook her head frantically.

"The very _best _thing for both of us right now would be for me to leave this room. But I can't. I have ensured that there is absolutely no one – _no one –_ who will bother us. All. Day. Long. Other than the food which will arrive, on time, with predictable and almost annoying regularity, _No One_ will come up here – today. Tonight. At all. So, I cannot leave." He started fiercely pointing at the door. "I cannot go get someone else to guard my _fucking_ wife who hasn't got the _fucking _sense that the Gods gave a _fucking GNAT _because I trapped myself in here so _fucking_ WELL…" He spun and went back to the desk, where he poured himself a second goblet of wine. "…because I wanted… to spend some fucking _time,"_ he took a series of deep swallows, _"talking with HER!"_

"Well, we _are_ talking," Arya said.

He slammed the goblet down, and wine sloshed out over his hand.

"Bloody HELL!" He stormed into the sitting room, holding his hand up. He came back in, wiping it off with a cloth. "What _else_ is there, Arya? Hm? What the fuck else is there that you haven't told me? In how many other ways have you defied me? Did you not _just _tell me, not an hour past, that you had been in that bed for nearly a week?"

"I didn't want you to _know, _Tywin!"

"_CLEARLY! _And you think that makes it _better?" _he roared. "Who was it who was making a bloody damn stink about not being a liar?"

Arya flushed. Tywin turned and stormed to one of the marble supporting columns, leaning against it with his back to her, arm outstretched with his palm against the stone, one leg extended behind him. He laid his head on his arm.

She crossed the room and placed a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off. "No."

She slowly lowered her hand, hurt. "Tywin, I…"

He shook his head. "No."

She waited for a moment, eyebrows drawn together. _I can't just leave this. _"Tywin, I needed to…"

He rounded on her. _"I said, 'NO,' woman!"_

"And I said that…"

"Dammit, Arya! Shut_ UP!"_

_ "NO! _I had things I needed to _attend_ to, and if you won't let me _speak_, then you have _no right_ to be angry when you end up not _knowing things!"_

He was bright purple as he pushed past her to take another drink. "You are going to be the death of me." He swallowed. "Do you know that?"

Arya's face was still tight with anger.

"You have a point," he said, pointing at her.

_Is the wine starting to get to him?_

"So tell me," he said, gesticulating wildly, "tell me, because I absolutely will be fascinated to know. What in the Seven _Hells_ was so _fucking_ important that you took not only your own life, but possibly the life of an unborn child – _my_ unborn child, I should say, and possibly my heir – unguarded, into a _fucking WHOREHOUSE_ in the middle of the _city_ against_ my Express COMMAND?!"_ He was shouting again.

"I have _people_ there," she said tightly. "They are _my_ people, under _my_ protection, and they are _my_ responsibility, whether you 'COMMAND' me to stay here or _not._ My Lord. And if you _restrict_ my access to them, then I have no choice but to work _around_ you. My. Lord."

He was flabbergasted, and she knew it. She could see it in the confusion in his eyes, in the slackening in his mouth, in the way he dropped his shoulders, and in the drop in his heel._ Aha. Surprise, my Lord. Well. There will be a few more where THAT came from, I am afraid._ "And, furthermore, if I tell you everything about everything, all the time, I put lives at risk – yours included, I might add. So. Yes, because I know that this is _top_ on your list of Lannister Pride Priority Questions, there are quite a few things that I have not told you. But, no, none of them are truly relevant to our marriage at this point in time. And every word – other than the bit about the bed, which you have to admit _was_ somewhat forced – that I have spoken to you since we have been married, has been true."

"That… establishment… belongs to Littlefinger," he said quietly, almost hopefully.

"Probably… not any more, my Lord."

He was incredulous.

"I do not pretend to spend any time there," Arya was quick to say. "But I had an opportunity to meet a… person… once. She was in some… need, and I helped her. And it was due, in no small measure, to Littlefinger's… practices. I became aware that she was not the only one who underwent certain predicaments… from time to time. So… I have made arrangements that the establishment should come… to me. My Lord. And… in the meanwhile, they have done me some small services, and in return, I have helped them. From time to time."

"Do they, perhaps, assist with messages?" He was tapping the crumpled scroll, still held in his fist, on the desk.

"That is one of their functions. Yes."

"And… substances?"

"My Lord…"

"Arya," he growled, "I don't pretend to know how far or how deep this goes. But I intend to find out. Is this where you got the poison?"

"I didn't get Sansa the poison. My Lord. I merely told her how to discern what it was, and where Littlefinger typically kept such things."

He glanced at her.

"I _told_ you, Tywin: I _learn_. I pay attention, and I learn, and you have to think to yourself who it is that you have surrounded me with these past four years. It hasn't been a group of quiet Septas gossiping in a corner."

"No. It hasn't. And yet, something tells me that you may have missed something. Do you know," he mused, almost idly, "Have you any _idea_, how exquisitely dangerous what you have done has been? Do you even know who these people _are?_ No, Arya, you don't. Because _if_ you did, you would not have done something this _consummately dim._"

Arya knew enough to say nothing. Which was good, because…

"You are my _wife!_ My _wife,_ Arya, and I _will not_ _have_ you trouncing around the city like some common trollop! _GODS! _You are to be the fucking _QUEEN,_ and yet you tell me that yesterday…" his nose flared. "This _ends_, Arya. Whatever little games you and your sister have cooked up between you, they end, here, now, _today._"

"My Lord…"

He flew out of his chair. _"TODAY, ARYA!"_

"I am not certain that… is _possible_, my Lord."

His eyes narrowed. A slow breath. Two. "Because?"

"Not all of them are in the city today."

"Arya." He twisted his neck, where she could see the distended veins that were a very good indicator of her husband's usually fairly tightly-reined emotions. He was staring past her to a point somewhere beyond her head. "What I think I would like to do is this. Listen to me. Very. Carefully." He lowered his eyes to hers momentarily to ensure she was listening, then cast his gaze once more beyond her.

"I… am going to try… _very_ hard to get what remains of this day back for us by attempting to set aside much of what you have told me in the last hour. Tomorrow, I shall be in meetings for most of the day. You shall have fittings during some part of that. But during the remainder of tomorrow, I shall send you several individuals whom I trust. You are to give them whatever instructions are necessary to bring these – activities – to a close. You are not to leave this suite. I shall repeat that, in case it was not clear. You – are – not – to – leave – this – suite. And then, you and I shall meet to discuss your success _before_ dinner, in a room somewhere outside of our quarters, which I would prefer to reserve for _peaceful communication and restitution_. Whatever you cannot manage within these parameters tomorrow, I shall take over myself. And, after that, should I discover that you are running some kind of… network… without my knowledge or consent… Arya… I shall be quite displeased. Is that clear." This last as a statement – not the question that the words would indicate. Tywin lowered his even gaze once more to Arya.

Arya breathed. Finally, "Yes, my Lord."

"Good." Very low and clearly restrained. "And Arya," he growled, "you had better hope this whole thing with Baelish has not happened. Because _that_ whole mess," he pointed to the desk without looking "came in a matter of two days. If he is dead, Arya… Gods help us. You two may destabilize all of Westeros out of sheer…" he shook his head, "I cannot decide whether to call it ignorance or stupidity."

Arya's face settled into a blank mask. "Westeros will survive Littlefinger's absence, _My Lord._ As I told you once before, _Anyone can be killed. Any. One."_

"That does not make it a good _idea,_ Arya!" He came back to tower over her. "Especially," he bent down until he was as close as he could possibly be without actually touching her, "_right _NOW!" he roared. He turned and stormed back to the desk, where he drank several more swallows. "_Gods,_ Arya! Do you have any _idea_ how much more incomparably difficult this makes things? Great Baelor's Ghost!"

"I understand that it makes things more of a challenge for _you,_ Tywin; but I think that at the same time, it will make things significantly easier for Sansa!"

"And to whom do you owe your allegiance, Arya?" he asked dangerously.

"Oh, calm down, Tywin. My only point is that I was _trying_ to make things somewhat less awful for my sister, who has had a bloody miserable time of it. You should be happy. The Vale will go to a Lannister, now."

"If you honestly think that I will allow that… lascivious little… _swine_ to rule _anything_ short of an _anthill_ beneath my colors, then you have learned very little."

"Why do you hate him so much? What in the world did he ever do to you?"

"Ha!" Tywin turned. "Other than try to kill me, you mean."

"Well. Yes. But you hated him before that, which was _why_ he_…_"

"Arya, if you mean to take his part…"

She sighed._ This is going nowhere fast. I need… I need him to calm down, is what I need._ She walked into the sitting room and opened the wardrobe. She began getting dressed. She heard his measured steps coming around the doorway.

"What," he asked slowly and _very _quietly, "are you doing?"

"Going for a walk. Would you care to come?"

He placed his goblet down on the small table by the door. He fisted his hands and opened them again. Then he folded his arms.

Arya turned to face away from him, rolling her shoulder, pressing on it with her fingers, before starting to pull on her clothes.

"Have. You. Lost. Your. Mind."

She turned, stretching her arms through her sleeves. "Hm?"

"Do you really believe I am going to allow you to walk through that door?"

Arya considered. Then she nodded. "Yes." She finished by pulling on a riding skirt.

"And what madness has overtaken you that makes you believe this?"

"I'm hungry."

"As I told you, food will be here shortly," he growled.

She shrugged and took a few steps toward the door.

"Arya!"

"I'm lonely," she said.

His eyes narrowed and his jaw set. "I have gone… to great _lengths…_ to keep you _company_ today."

"You are not much company right now. I was thinking perhaps I would visit Brienne."

His eyes flashed. "You," he said, "are goading me. Which is not _wise,_ Arya, as I am _not_ in the mood."

"No, Tywin, you're not. And neither am I. I want to get out of here because I am tired of arguing with you. Now, _move._"

He straightened. "I am not arguing. There is nothing to argue." He bent and picked her up. "You," he said, "need to eat more." He turned and carried her to her side of the bed, where he unceremoniously deposited her. He then turned back to the sitting room. Arya heard the door open and close. She smiled. Within a very few minutes, he had returned. "I am very glad to see," he said, "that you possessed the intelligence not to try to leave, as you would have had to pass me on the way. And that would not have been pleasant for you. Food will arrive shortly, and will be left… outside."

He walked to the desk and poured yet _more_ wine, then took a drink, gazing at her. He put the goblet down. He leafed through the parchments, though Arya knew that he had them all memorized. He walked into the sitting room. He walked back, placing a new bottle of wine on the desk. He stood by the window and stared out. He came and stood by her and stared down at her. She stared back. He walked back to the sitting room. The door opened and closed. Tywin paced. He came back through the bedroom occasionally, circled through the sitting room, and opened the door. Again and again he circled. Ultimately, the food came, and that gave him something to do, but he just picked at it, and Arya ate nothing at all. Finally, he gave up and came back to the bed. He marched to his side with determination, then stared again at Arya as if daring her to make a comment about it, then sat. She said nothing.

Eventually, he put his arm out, and though she arched an eyebrow at him, she did slide over, keeping her smile entirely unseen._ There,_ she thought. _That is one small thing taken care of. It may have taken an hour to do it, but I got him calm._ She sighed.

"Who was Jaqen?" Tywin finally asked over her head.

"Pick something else," she responded without looking up at him. He drew a deep breath, which he held for several seconds before releasing it.

They were silent for several minutes. Then, "All right – then, who is Hodor?"

"Hodor is a simpleton with whom I was raised. He is very gentle and very kind, but the only thing he has ever been able to say is 'Hodor,' so that is what he is called."

"You said your brothers were with him."

Arya was silent.

Tywin's chin was on her head, and she could feel his jaw tightening and rolling. She closed her eyes. "Yes," she said, before he could get too annoyed, "I did. Well – at least one of them is with him. I'm not sure if they are all together."

"And how is it that you believe this, when the rest of Westeros believes your brothers dead? Understand me, Arya: I do not wish your brothers dead. I merely wish to understand."

"I… am afraid to tell you how I know what I know."

"Is it the same way that you knew about Sansa?"

"No."

"All right. We are back to trust and truth again."

"Nymeria."

"I beg your pardon?"

"My… wolf."

"Aha. I wondered. And your brothers?"

"Also, yes."

"But not Sansa, because…" Arya felt him nod slowly. "I see." He thought for a moment. "Just tell them to come, Arya. Tell them to come to King's Landing."

Arya laughed.

Tywin stilled.

"I'm sorry, Tywin. Forgive me. But they hate you. They hate you, they mistrust you, and they would never – they would _never_ – come. Besides, Jon already has divided loyalties, and Bran… something is happening to Bran that I don't understand."

"What about the other one?"

Arya turned her head up to him. "Rickon?"

"Is that his name?"

"Yes. It is hard to get much sense out of Rickon. I know he is alive and in the North, somewhere, but I don't know where, because _he_ doesn't know where. He was very young when we all left Winterfell, and he has gone somewhat… wild."

"We could bring him back here. Soon enough, he would be a man."

Arya almost chuckled, but let it be. "Tywin… Let me communicate with Jon. Everything else…" she sighed, "…is going to take some time. And," she turned her head up to face him, "as like as not, more than a little frustration."

He gazed down at her. His color was back to normal, and his heart rate as well, although he still held himself in that tense 'readiness' state that came after arguing.

She was still watching him. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you," she said, quietly.

His eyes moved in hers and his fingers tightened around her. "Which part?"

"All of it," she said, "but truthfully, you have to imagine… when would I have said any of that? And… what would it have done… or what I was worried it might do… to us?"

"Mm. Well. I don't do well with surprises, so I expect I shall just have to make time to talk with you every day to ensure we don't have any… repeats… of today." He took a deep breath and some of the tension left him. "We are going to have to leave the apartments sooner than I had planned. We would have had to leave within a few days in any case, but now – I cannot have you in here any longer. The danger is simply too high. Until the coronation, I am going to have to place you in hiding, my dear." He chuckled. "You thought you had restrictions _before_ today. What I _ought_ to do is that I _ought_ to be up and out of this bed and finding you an appropriate hiding place _now, _is what I _ought_ to do. But I am too bloody tired – thank you very much – and, as I have pointed out, there truly is no one available to help me. Thankfully, there also are very few who I truly fear as well, so we should be all right for the time being, but… _honestly,_ Arya." He shook his head.

Several minutes passed. He was caressing her shoulder.

"Tywin, who…"

"Later," he growled, pulling her into his lap. "Right now, I find that I have a point I wish to make. I believe you may need _reminding_ of a thing or two. Or, perhaps I simply haven't been clear enough on these points." His left hand was sliding up the inside of her thigh. She turned to kiss him, but he turned away. "No – not… this… time." She pulled back to look at him. His hand was nearing her smallclothes. "Now," he said, pulling them taut. Deftly and swiftly, he cut them free with the dagger that yet remained on his side table, and then returned it there. She gasped, both at the unexpected intensity of movement, and the fingers that rather suddenly were manipulating her – both physically, and, as she was coming more and more to realize, psychologically. "There is a place and a time for silence," Arya was moving away from him, but he had her caged – again. "And a place and a time for discussion, and I think, perhaps – be _still,_ Arya – that you may have those things confused. In addition, I find that – strangely enough – we have never discussed family. There are husbands – that would be me – and there are _wives_ – that would be _you_. And, in a family such as this one, there are Heads of House. And. That. Would. Be. _Me._"

Arya was breathing very deeply. Tywin stopped his ministrations. "Don't. Move." He shifted a bit. "Now. As your husband, as the Head of your House, and – shortly – as your _king_, I am in something of a unique position. You see, should I choose, I can _take – _you understand what I mean by 'take', I hope – you _anywhere_, Arya." And he began touching her lightly again, whispering in her ear, "Anywhere. In the Great Hall. Before thousands of people. Be _silent,_ girl. Or, if you please, in the Small Council chamber." And he slipped a finger within her. "And because you will have such _lovely_ gowns, Arya," he pulled his finger out and moved his hand to his breeches, "and because I have trained you so _very _well," then placed both hands on her hips and shifted them both, "they will never _know_," and he slipped himself inside her, and she gasped, "unless, of course, you _let_ them know, as you would have just there – that I am making love with my _beautiful_ wife… right… before… their… eyes." And he was moving agonizingly slowly. "Imagine it, Arya," he said, as she pulsed and grew hungrier for him, for _more,_ "me, doing _this,"_ and he stroked, and that _shock_ went through her, straight to his finger, making it wetter, she knew, and making her want to groan and grind against him – but she didn't, because he would stop if she did. "…in front of Pycelle," _stroke,_ "and Jaime," _stroke,_ "and Varys," and he was hovering, both outside and over her, and she was _so_ hungry. _"And they would have no idea."_

He moved his hands. Something in Arya screamed and ached for the loss as someplace else woke, though they were bare hair breadths apart. "Did you know, love," he said, stroking, as Arya rocked her head against him, "that there is a place on your body that simply stores _memories?_ What are you thinking of right now?"

"Gods, Tywin, no…"

He stilled. "I _do_ know how to do this on my own. I don't actually _need_ you."

She growled and he smiled. "Tell me," he said, stroking.

"The last night… before you asked me to marry you," she said.

"Ah," he replied, "I wondered."

She moved, and he circled a different spot. _Delicious_, she thought, melting into him.

"Don't go to sleep, now," he said, "I was just getting interested. What about that night?" He moved fractionally within her, reminding her that he was still there.

"I was standing at the map table – everyone else had gone," she said.

"Yes. You looked rather intense. And yet – nothing on that map had changed. Nothing had changed for _days_."

She smiled. "I asked you about the defenses of – _Gods, Tywin, do that again."_

He stroked. He circled. Memories of _wanting_ him that night flashed through her, of wanting him and _wondering_ if he would – if he could ever feel the same. "Astapor. You are so wet, love. Tell me."

"Mm. You came up… you came up and stood _right_ behind me… and… I wasn't sure…"

"If it was on purpose or not. It was," he whispered. "You didn't give a damn about that bloody map."

She rolled a little on his chest. "And you just… stood… so close I could hear you breathing…"

He chuckled. "Bodies are _tools,_ love, just as anything else is, but people forget to _use_ them. Go on." He withdrew, leaving only the tip within.

_"Tywin!"_

_"Earn_ it. _Tell_ me."

She sighed, but it came out as a growl.

"Be careful, Arya – remember, all of the Small Council surrounds us."

"No, they don't."

_"Try me."_

And with a chill, she knew he was quite capable of it.

"You could hear me breathing. Like _thisss…"_ and he whispered into her ear. And I was behind you, _just as I am now, don't you see, Arya?"_ He pushed into her a bit more.

Arya sighed again, but differently this time. "Yes," she said quietly, "and you reached past me to point something out, and your hand brushed mine," Arya's eyes were closed, remembering.

Tywin thrust, slowly. "It did, didn't it? But that wasn't all."

"No…your shoulder brushed mine as well."

"Mm, _and?"_ Tywin lightly brushed Arya's release point, forever joining the memory with the sensation as he filled her.

"Aaaand _Tywinnn… And_ your thigh brushed past mine when you reached."

"You didn't know, did you?"

"Know what?"

"I shall tell you something, Arya," he whispered. He was buried in her, but pushed up against her regardless. "I was so aroused that night that I very nearly took you right there and then on that table. And you didn't know it – which just made me want you all the more. But I knew that I was close – _so_ close – to doing it _right_, doing it _properly,_ that I controlled myself." He withdrew a bit. "It is all about _control,_ you see, Arya; the man who masters control – who _truly_ understands it – rules the world. And, now, look; I have you in my bed, in my arms, by my side. Should I choose, I can have scores of little Arya Lannisters running these halls." He pulled out and lifted her from him, pulling his clothes off. "Get undressed," he said.

She eyed him, but sat up and pulled her clothes from her, discarding them over the side of the bed. He lay back down over her, Arya tracing again the scar on his belly. He took her fingers from him so that he could cover her. He slipped back inside, rolling his hips slowly. "I am your husband, Arya, and the Head of House Lannister. _This – _that happened today – this will _not_ happen again, do you understand? It is simply not acceptable. I would hate to have to restrict your movements on a more permanent basis."

"I… understand, my Lord, but…" Arya bit her lip.

Tywin's eyes closed, and he stilled within her. _"'But'_ what?" He opened his eyes and met her gaze with a flat stare that told her, _This had better be damn good._

"I don't think you understand quite the _extent_ of my involvement… because I haven't yet had the opportunity to _tell_ you. My… Lord."

Tywin's face had grown darker with each passing word. His hips rolled. And they rolled. "Are you telling me," he whispered, "that my wife is running some kind of… information network… throughout Westeros… of which I have previously been… unaware?"

Arya glanced away, and then back at Tywin. "Yes. My Lord. Of… a sort." She squeaked.

He closed his eyes and dropped his head to hers, his tongue savagely probing her mouth while his lips opened and closed, drawing her tongue into his mouth and releasing it again and again. His finger and thumb were tracing slow, lazy patterns among the slick folds of tissue above where their bodies joined.

He rolled into her, advancing and retreating like a wave on sand.

And when he touched her, everything _'Arya'_ fled. It became replaced with _'Oh, Gods, HOW can I keep him here, HOW can I keep him doing whatever he is doing,'_ and _'Tywin, you are __Tywin__, and this is __yours__,'._ And soon, she was rolling with him, her legs around his, her motion entirely dependent upon him – except for one place, and he soon asked for that as well.

_"Squeeze, Arya,"_ he whispered hoarsely into her ear.

And she did, with everything she had, because all she wanted was for this to go on forever, and if squeezing meant it would go on a little longer…

_"Harder"_

She squeezed harder, and the waves that were their body crashed on the beach of the bed a little closer together. _"That's it, Arya, good."_

Arya squeezed even harder. Something hard and warm – _Tywin's head – _adjusted by her ear. _"Gods, woman, never… __never__… oh, seven bloody Hells…"_

Arya put everything she had into squeezing, but she remembered something… and she squeezed and released, and moved against him _just_ a tiny bit…_ "OH, Holy Baelor… Good GODS, good Gods…"_

And then he moved his pelvis, or maybe his hands, or whatever it was that he did... _"NOW, Arya, by the Gods, you are mine, and __I__ do this – so come, Arya, darling, for me, for Tywin…"_…that made Arya fight and tense and _hold_ him…

And his mouth was by her ear, and she felt like crying and laughing and clenching _everything _and getting him _out _because it was too _much, _and yet, she was flying…"_Relax, Arya, I won't go anywhere, love, you cannot stop it, so just let it come, darling, because you need to know, Arya… I can do this more quickly, yes, but then, you will not hear me… and I __love__ how this feels to me, right here, right now, so why would I do it more quickly, do you see?... You are my WIFE, Arya. This… belongs… to… me. Let… go… now." _

And something, somewhere, _shifted_ a tiny bit. Just a little. And Arya's legs relaxed, as if she weren't even there, as if she had no say – although she didn't mind. She _needed_ this, and she needed it _now_.

And he _knew._ And whether his touches did it or not, his words were warm low rumbles in her ear. _"Yes, love, good, let go. That's it, let it come, let it come for me, because I __know__, Arya, I can feel it."_ And Arya whined and pulled against him. _"Yes, baby, yes, here it comes, don't keep it from me, because it is MINE, Arya_," he whispered, again and again, until suddenly, Arya had no further choice.

Arya searched for his mouth and clamped on as it came, and she drew him in to her – _all_ of him – mouth, manhood, breath, spirit, _everything. _And then, she couldn't help it, she moved, because this time, they were a wave. So Arya took them crashing again and again, back and forth, until she had nothing left, but _he – Tywin, man, husband – _took them together from there, pulling his mouth from hers, because although she needed his on hers, he needed to call out, and he did, calling her name again, and again, as he thrust _Yes!,_ and he _thrust YES, Arya, Gods, YES!,_ and he thrust – and held, as every muscle in his body strained to throw forth his seed and his anger, his love and his rage, his passion and his terror – all in one instant, but it was too much, it was far too much for one, so he pulled back, and Arya braced herself, because Tywin was as fierce as she had ever seen him. He crashed into her again – _AAGH YES, GODS! – _and his jaw and buttocks clenched as he held himself against her, and she watched, fascinated and exhausted, and he pulled back again, crashing again, _NNGH, I Love you, Aryaaangh!_, and then one last time, but with less ferocity, _Holy Gods, what you do to me, woman,_ and then the rage was done. Tywin rocked into Arya a few more times, his momentum carrying him as he slowed.

And he slowed.

And he slowed. Until he stopped.

Tywin's chin dropped. He was out of breath.

He bent to Arya, kissed her gently, and then again, deeply and tenderly, and then lowered himself onto her, lacing his fingers behind her head as he looked down at her.

He stared at her for a long time.

"If," he rumbled quietly at last, "I had not _personally_ been the one who thrust through your maidenhead," he paused, his eyes traveling hers as a slight smile ghosted along his lips, "I would have to wonder at your _previous experience_. As it is, I am left believing that you have had an _exceptional – recent – _education." He kissed her again.

"I assure you, my Lord, that every experience… of that nature… that I have had, has been at your hands, and yours alone. And you know that I am, from this point on, sworn to honesty, in this bed especially." She smiled at him.

He rolled to his side. "Well," he said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, "if it is a matter of _enjoyment,"_ he rose, turning back with an uncharacteristic grin, "I believe I have now addressed that issue in a _clear_ and _forthright_ manner." He stepped into the sitting room, soon returning with a few damp cloths. He settled next to her again, a smile still upon his face. "Honestly, you would do well to learn somewhat _less_ quickly, or I truly _might_ be tempted to bring you in to council meetings with me."

She looked at him, aghast, as he gently wiped her legs. "You wouldn't."

He glanced up at her. "Keep up like that, and I might." He shook his head. "I think I just emptied about seven years' worth of Lannisters into you. A lucky number, but still. And the way things have been progressing," he glanced at her again, another wry grin on his face, "I may find another seven years' worth by this evening."

"Tywin, I'm getting sore."

He nodded to the desk. "I still have that Milk of the Poppy."

She rolled her eyes.

He tossed the cloths over the edge of the bed. "I never have been one for sleeping in the middle of the day, but for some reason, I find myself somewhat… worn out. Can't for the life of me think why, but perhaps a short rest wouldn't hurt before we…" he cast her a sidelong glance, "…discuss remaining matters this evening." He laid down, and she snuggled into her spot next to him.

"Wait a moment," he said, and she lifted her head.

She watched somewhat curiously as he moved lower in the bed so that his face was even with her hair.

"All right," he said, and she laid back down.

The pair were soon asleep, one dreaming wolf dreams, the other dreaming dreams of forests in springtime.


	15. Chapter 15 Of Pride Prejudiced

Chapter 15: Of Pride Prejudiced

Tywin lay considering.

_Beneath my eyes,_ he thought. _This went on beneath – my – eyes. Incomprehensible._

He glanced down to consider the sleeping form next to him as he twirled her hair around his finger. Noting the movement, he shook it off irritably. _Weakness,_ he thought. _This has gone too far. I should send her to Casterly._

And then he had to stifle yet another shard of annoyance at the mix of unwelcome emotions that _that_ consideration brought. _And now, at the presence of this woman – this __girl__ – in my bed, I cannot even consider being parted from her?_ He grimaced. _Absurd._

He found that he was twining her hair around his fingers again.

_Well. After all, I cannot very well send a new queen off into nowhere before she has even yet won the hearts of her subjects for her king._

Which wasn't entirely honest on many levels, not the least of which was the ever increasing tide of commoners crashing against the gates requesting – no, _begging_ – for a glimpse of The Lady Arya. Not, if you please, Lady _Lannister_; no, The Lady Arya she had become, in an astonishingly short period. Flags of blood-red wolves on golden backgrounds had begun springing up around the city, quietly placed in the night by even quieter hands. Tywin saw the entire thing with a certain amount of indulgent amusement, and was intelligent enough to see the potential, so he let it be. But, still.

_Perhaps they have been placed by 'her' people._

Even as he considered the distasteful thought, he knew the truth was not that simple. No, she fed their need in some way; there had not been a popular queen in King's Landing in far too long, and while she wasn't – _yet_ – queen, the difference to the people was minimal. _Her people, indeed._ He chuckled once, and then actually found that he was smiling. _And yet… and yet, why not? One cannot hold a worthy brain caged – it will break free, or it will die._

_ She is my wife._

_ Perhaps so. But perhaps she brings a gift to this marriage that I never imagined possible. Perhaps several._

_ She is my wife – my WIFE!_

He glared down at Arya while she slept. She dreamed on, oblivious.

_And what is it, Tywin, that bothers you about this so very much? That it was achieved? Or that it was achieved without your knowledge? Or without your consent?_

He stilled his fingers. _It is… inappropriate._

_ It was – and well you know it – a masterstroke._

He sighed and set his eyes on the now-perhaps-irrelevant stack of parchment on his desk. _Gods. No matter her intent, and no matter my response, this is going to be one unfathomable mess. Great BAELOR, Arya, the timing!_

_ She did not know that Cersei would see fit to flee the city with the thrice-damned boy king._

_ Which makes it exactly no easier to repair._ He was twining ever-more-complicated knots of her hair around his fingers as he sat quietly contemplating. Quietly, subtly, a gleam began to enter his eye – which, of course, no one saw. But as his mouth began to curl, Tywin saw the only reasonable answer, both to the immediate problem of what to do about the imminent financial collapse of Westeros, and to the future problem of how to manage – her. _It is only fitting,_ he thought at last,_ that she should repair it – herself. She wants to play at power and intrigue? Very well. Sit her on the Small Council – Queen or no – and make her manage things. Until, inevitably, it crumbles around her like a castle of matchsticks. And then I shall sweep them from the floor, repair the damage, and we shall have done with this, once and for all._

And, having decided upon a reasonable course, Tywin was not above admitting a certain amount of pride in her. _After all – who taught her?_ He smiled and laid a gentle kiss on Arya's head. And another on her lips. And found himself stirring – _again_.

Arya awoke, the long shadows of late afternoon casting weird patterns over her body. Tywin smiled again. _Indeed. Who taught her? And so very __well__._ He was just beginning to indulge in some self-congratulatory musings as Arya pushed herself up on her elbow, an odd look in her eye. She leaned in to kiss him, and he pulled her to him.

What followed… was not at _all_ to plan.

Significantly later, the shadows extended across the room, and Tywin felt an uncomfortable mixture of contentment and confusion. Arya had spent rather longer looking _down_ at his face than he was accustomed to, and although ultimately things had returned to their _proper_ positions, he distinctly remembered her uttering – _growling_, really – the words, _'Be STILL, Tywin!'_ And worse… he was fairly certain that, at least for a short period of time… he had _obeyed_.

_Ludicrous._

Yet – it hadn't been _terrible,_ exactly. Merely _extremely_ confusing.

He glanced at her uneasily. She was watching him. And smiling.

_Right. Time to get some work done._

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and cleared his throat before getting dressed. He moved about the apartment, edgy, and finally made a decision.

"Get up, Arya."

She returned his gaze curiously and wordlessly.

_Yes. Far too much… or little… __something__ in her. I…_ he turned away, passing a finger over his brow, _do not know entirely __what__. But definitely – something._

She still sat.

"Arya!"

"My Lord?"

_"Don't_ do that. Come, get dressed."

She scowled, but eventually got up and crossed the room. "And why?"

"Just _do_ it, for…" He sighed. "Because we are going out."

_That_ got a reaction – first surprise, and then a huge grin that went right to his core.

Arya dressed, and he took her from the apartments, worming his way through back passages of the castle until he reached his destination. She had grown rather uncharacteristically quiet as they proceeded, but he simply enjoyed the knowledge that he was, once again, _thoroughly_ in command of the situation.

Arriving at the door he sought, he knocked, Arya keeping behind him.

"My Lord Hand," Varys said quietly as his door opened. "It was my understanding that you were – erm – not _here_ today." His glance flicked into the shadow harboring Arya.

"Let us in, Varys," Tywin growled.

Varys opened his door, and Tywin led Arya confidently into Varys' receiving area. _Purple?_ He thought with distaste as he eyed the decorating scheme. _Teal?_ He frowned.

"How can I help you, Your Gr… my Lord?"

"Clever, Varys," Tywin replied. "My Lady requires a suitable – outfit. We are venturing into the city."

Varys' eyes met Arya's in a way that made Tywin _distinctly_ edgy. He continued, "Have you something suitable?"

Varys turned from him. "I believe I can find something, my Lord," he replied; but Tywin was certain that the Spider's eye had lingered a touch longer on Arya than was strictly necessary.

The cogs started turning, and as they picked up speed and he was about to turn to Arya, she stepped from behind him and spoke. "The beggar child Mumble, Varys, ought to be adequate. I apologize; I have not yet had time to return to my quarters for my things."

_Wha-at?_ He glanced between the two of them.

Varys nodded simply and exited the room.

Tywin narrowed his gaze as he turned to regard Arya. Trepidation painted her. "My Lord," she began, "we have not yet had adequate time for me to explain quite…_everything…_ to you. Yet." She flashed him a quick grin. "You wouldn't expect me to leave the castle without disguise, I'm certain – or you wouldn't have brought me here. I – am not unaccustomed to working with Master Varys." She licked her lips.

_Of course. Of __course__ you aren't,_ Tywin thought, as he settled into the silence which he had come long since to find yielded many more answers than his most thought-out questions. Indeed, Arya became fidgety and continued, "You would never sit me in a room filled with learned people from over the globe and expect me not to attempt to educate myself – would you?"

He just watched her.

"Master Varys – knows his trade. He and I have… collaborated… on some few… projects. Now and again." She chewed her lip.

His gaze rested heavily on her.

"Tywin? Say something."

"I cannot, Arya. For once, I am truly rendered speechless." And it was true – he really had absolutely no idea what to say.

Fortunately, he was kept from having to pursue this fruitless line of discussion by the reappearance of Varys, filthy dark-brown sackcloth draped over one hand and a basket filled with small ceramic pots in the other.

Tywin stood silently as Varys, equally silently for once, outfitted Arya and began daubing multi-hued paints over her skin, nails, hair, and teeth. When he was done, the effect was… _revolting._

"Tywin. It wouldn't be effective if I looked like Arya – or as your cupbearer – would it?"

"They are the _same_ _person_, Arya!"

"No. They are not."

Varys nodded appreciatively. Tywin shook his head. Arya continued. "Tywin, you – at some level – understand that beneath the clothes exists someone with the same thoughts and memories as the person with whom you entered this chamber. But is that who you _see?_"

"No. And that, my dear, is _precisely_ the problem. Thank you, Varys."

"My Lord Hand," Varys said easily, leading them to the exit. "I am certain that the urchin can show you around wherever you need to go," he said as he opened the door, tilting his head to them as they left.

"I want you to introduce me to whoever runs your little… establishment," Tywin said.

"Milord?" a small, shaky voice inquired.

"Stop that, Arya. This should be a simple venture into the city and back again. There is no need to… to _simper_… like that."

"Mumble doesn't understand. But if Milord wants Mumble to show him the city – _safely – _Mumble will _lead_ him."

Tywin was so astonished that he tripped on a crack in the floor. Arya skittered away from him. "Milord – I did nothing, I swear!"

He swept up beside her, hissing, _"Stop_ that, Arya. It is…" he eyed her, _"unnatural_. I only want you _safe;_ it is only a _disguise!"_

And now, Arya's voice emerged, very, very quietly. "Tywin, if you want this to succeed, you _must_ trust me. _Follow,_ for once," she growled, "and for _Gods'_ sake, keep your voice down. Milord."

Something in Tywin recognized the truth of her words, though he had never deigned to learn much about intrigue. The idea that he would shed his exterior to sink into someone else's persona was so very foreign to him as to be almost physically repugnant. But he did see that she made a certain amount of sense.

Deeper than that, however, was Tywin's military recognition of authority within a role. And though he had learned to master it when necessary, his initial impulse was to yield when someone clearly his superior directed him. As was the case here. _She – is __comfortable__ with this! _

"If Milord will follow?" She simpered, but he heard the urgency. It said, _"Seven hells, Tywin, make up your mind, and do it NOW, or we will both be at risk."_

Tywin shoved his pride somewhere deep, down near his toes. "Get your filthy fingers off me," he growled, giving her the slightest of nods.

"Forgive Mumble…"

And they were off.


	16. Chapter 16 Can You Speak A Little Louder

Chapter Sixteen: Can You Please Speak A Little Louder?

Mumble led Tywin from his comfort zone near the castle – where things were clean… ish… down rather nearer the docks – where they were… not. She shuffled barefoot through the increasingly filthy streets, the whole way thinking to herself, _Gods this is a bad idea… what in the Seven Hells is he thinking… he will be dead before we even get there… at least he should have had Varys disguise him; but no, the great Tywin Lannister cannot conceive of such a thing…_ As they proceeded, he muttered with greater and greater frequency, things of this nature: "I do hope you know where you are leading us, _child,"_ and then, "You do realize who you are leading, don't you, _child,"_ and then, "You understand, don't you, _child,_ the repercussions should anything happen to… me." This last was said with just enough hesitation that Mumble knew _exactly_ who he meant – and it wasn't Tywin. "Yes, milord," she replied; or "I understand, milord;" or "Not to worry, milord, almost there," until, to her very great relief, they were within sight of the flag, fluttering in the breeze, displaying a lavender orchid upon a peach field. _They have changed the banner,_ she noted sardonically. _Goodness, perhaps there has been a change in ownership._ She also saw, flying above it, beside the Lannister lion, with somewhat mixed emotion, the other banner – the red wolf on golden background – that she had seen with a frequency that had at first been interesting… and then flattering… and then a bit alarming. _Ah. Well. There will be words about __this__, I am certain._

She dipped her head at the banners as they approached the building, which had also recently been painted – peach. _Ick. I shall have to discuss this with Penger,_ she thought. The blond man had worked under Littlefinger for years, quietly learning, just as she – and, oddly enough, Sansa – had; and now, he performed more than adequately as their business manager. And if he occasionally – miscalculated – at least his fees weren't outrageous, and he was worth every penny, to keep his skills _hers_. But…_ peach? I understand the value of consistent marketing, but… ick._ She opened the cross-hatched wooden door for Tywin, praying that Caren would be at the front desk.

Alas, prayer never had been Arya's strong point, and the doe-eyes of little Mia blinked out from behind the desk, recognizing neither her – nor, _most_ unfortunately, Tywin.

"Can I help you, milord? Is someone expecting you?"

Mumble nearly smacked her forehead in frustration. _Really? Really, Mia? Honestly._ She cleared her throat. Mia's eyes slid to her, dismissed her, and then slid back to Tywin, who stood before her like a gathering storm.

_ Gods. If I don't get control of this situation quickly, we shall be shut down before he opens his mouth._

"Perhaps –" Mia started.

Mumble stepped forward to the desk, cutting her off. "My Lord the _Hand of the King_ wishes to speak with _Caren, _Mia, on a matter of some _urgency,_" she hissed quietly.

Mia's head whipped back to her, her eyes narrowing, but – Gods bless her, still not seeing. "I… shall go see if she is available."

"Tell her that the barefooted urchin dislikes the new paint job," Mumble muttered, barely audible.

Mia blinked – several times – and then nodded.

In a blessedly short period of time, Caren came out from behind the curtained back room, did an admirable job of hiding her alarm, and said quietly, "If you would be so kind, My Lord. Child, if you come, I shall see you fed."

"Thank you, milady."

Tywin, throughout these interchanges, had maintained a stony silence, his brows somewhere down around his toes; but he followed, surveying the establishment's airy interior as he walked. "It is… quiet," he said, as they approached a door. There had been several windows open to a garden in a courtyard in back, from which the only sounds – bird calls and running water – could be heard.

"Yes," Caren agreed. "Peaceful, isn't it? If you would?"

Tywin stepped into Caren's office, where a desk and several cabinets carried the businesslike atmosphere the office was meant to display. Out of sight or hidden were – many things that might be of interest to Tywin, but Mumble saw no immediate need to mention these. Tywin settled into one of the chairs before the desk; it was not particularly luxurious, and the legs were cut slightly unevenly, so as to invite – short stays – from officials. Mumble sat next to him.

Caren's eyes flicked to Mumble as she settled into her chair. She tapped on the desk, appearing to drum her fingers. – _Does he know who you are?_

Mumble sighed, a single long sigh, _Yes,_ then drummed, _Are we secure?_

Caren gave the barest of shrugs. _As much as can be expected._

Mumble pulled down her hood. All of this had taken fewer than a couple of seconds – and had passed Tywin without notice. "It is good to see you, Caren. I'm sorry it has been so long – I have been…" she glanced at Tywin, "…otherwise occupied."

Tywin glowered.

_Right. Moving along…_ "I think My Lord Tywin has some questions." She drummed her fingers. _Basic, Caren. Honest, but as basic as you can get, and I shall cover you._

"The Gods' blessings on you both…" _Is he good to you?_

_ - Yes. _

"…How can I help you?"

Tywin, now beginning to suspect that there was something happening that he did not see – but unable to discern what exactly it was – narrowed his eyes as he looked from one woman to the other. "It is my understanding," he began, "that this… establishment… belongs to Petyr Baelish."

Thankfully, Caren did not look to Arya for guidance. "It did, My Lord."

"But now?"

Arya sighed – a single, long, sigh.

Tywin glanced at her.

"It belongs to your wife and her Lady sister."

Tywin paused. "It does."

"Yes."

"I see." He sat there for a moment. Arya began to wonder if he simply had hoped that it was all – made up, somehow. "And did my Lady wife _buy_ this establishment?"

"In a manner of speaking, My Lord."

"I'm sorry…" he said, very quietly.

_Oh, dear._

"…but I don't quite know what 'in a manner of speaking' means. Could you please clarify? _Are you quite all right, Arya?"_ For Arya had sighed again, and now sat chewing her lip.

"My Lord," Arya replied, "I am happy to answer these questions for you."

_"No,_ Arya, _THANK_ you, but I believe I would rather hear them from someone _else_ just now, so…" turning back to Caren, "…could you please _clarify?"_

"Petyr Baelish is dead, My Lord, and the terms of his will stated that upon his death, the Orchid was to be made available for immediate purchase to your Lady wife and her sister."

Tywin worked his jaw as he reddened. A vessel pulsed in his temple. "When did Baelish die?"

_Oh, dear._

And at this, unfortunately, Caren _did_ look to Arya. A dreadful silence fell upon the room. Tywin turned to Arya. "Do _either_ of you know?"

Arya knew better than to look away, but…

"So, in fact, you are telling me that you do not even know for certain _that_ he is dead – and yet you _are_ certain, which is interesting. Do you have _any_ idea…" he tilted his head back, his face pale, his jaw working. "All right, _ladies._ Listen to me. I do not care who it is who comes asking – I assume I am the first?"

"Yes, My Lord."

"Very good. I do not care who comes asking, or what manner of torture they apply to you or your…" he took a deep breath, "…associates… but until it becomes _general knowledge_ that Baelish is in fact _dead,_ he _still-owns-this-establishment-is-that-understood-ladies?!"_

"Yes, My Lord."

Tywin passed a hand over his eyes. "How many… employees… are aware that the Lady Arya now owns this… place?"

Caren swallowed and glanced at Arya. Arya shrugged. Caren cleared her throat and said, "I really cannot say for certain, My Lord. At least three. Me, my night manager, and our book-keeper."

Tywin closed his eyes, muttering. "…Baelor's Ghost… wife… timing… the Holy Seven…" After some time, he opened his eyes. "Black pustules."

_Ick._

Arya and Caren both stared at Tywin, who repeated, "Black. Pustules."

"I'm… sorry, My Lord, but…" Caren stammered, clearly perplexed.

"The Orchid is now under quarantine for Black Pustules until further notice. Nobody in. Nobody out. Do you understand?"

Arya gasped; Caren gaped.

"Tywin, you _can't…"_

And then, he went mad. "I bloody well _can, _you insane woman!" He flew out of his chair and stood looming over her. "Do you have _any_ idea – GOOD HOLY SEVEN GODS ABOVE _CLEARLY YOU DO NOT! – _what you have _done?_ Tomorrow… No. No, I cannot… Good… AGH! BLACK PUSTULES, and if you DO not close those doors and do _exactly_ as I say, I shall _burn this place to the ground!_" His eyes raged, his hand clenched and unclenched his sword grip by his side. "To the GROUND, Arya! Do you understand me?"

"I – "

"My Lord." Caren spoke soothingly from behind the desk.

_Yes, please – I don't know what you think you are going to do, Caren, but tread carefully – still, if you can get us out of this…_

"I understand your concern, My Lord. If I may ask – what am I to do with those who are here currently?"

"They _STAY!"_

"And… if they are part of your… household?"

He stiffened.

_Oh – shite. The one thing she could possibly have said to make this worse…_

"WHO?"

"My Lord. We have a policy – "

_"WHO?"_

"I'm sorry, My Lord."

_Wow. I never realized she had such…_

He leaned on his knuckles on the desk before her.

"To. The. Ground." He hissed.

"So be it," she replied quietly. "And when the screams are heard across Flea Bottom, I shall make certain that the people know who is responsible."

_…reckless stupidity._

"Your name."

"Caren Naunlos."

_...or… perhaps, courage._

He stood, fuming. Then he turned to Arya. "You own this… establishment?"

"I do, My Lord."

He leaned towards her. "I own _you_."

She stared flatly at him._ Here, in my house… you do not._

"Arya." He looked expectantly at her.

She returned the stare. "My Lord."

He took it for acquiescence. "Shut it down, Arya. Shut it down, or…" he leaned further in, whispering to her ear, "we risk _everything,_ Arya. _Everything._ If you carry the heir, Arya, and one of Baelish's men turn on you… Until word gets out, Arya. Shut. It. Down." He straightened, meeting her level gaze. They stood there, staring at one another for several moments.

"It isn't the only one, Tywin," she murmured finally. "Shutting down the Orchid will do nothing but spark rumors that the Hand showed up – and the establishment closed. When word does get out, and people realize that it was owned by Littlefinger, they will start asking questions."

"So, then, we shall make another _stop_," he growled.

She raised her eyebrows.

His lips narrowed. "How many, Arya?"

"Epidemic, Tywin. And all of them owned by Littlefinger and visited by the Hand? I will do it – but it isn't a good idea."

Caren sat at the desk behind Tywin, awaiting judgment as Tywin stared down at Arya. "You were always so quiet," he said finally.

"One learns little by speaking," she replied, "and reveals much. What do you wish to do, My Lord?"

He turned away, shaking his head. "If we survive the next month, it will be a miracle. I hate to say this, but…" he turned back, looking at Caren. "Do you have a secure message service?"

"I do, My Lord."

"Give me some parchment and a quill."

"You," Tyrion said, "are a wonder. A sheer wonder, and I am a lucky, lucky man." He took a drink from his goblet as he stared across the candlelit table at his wife.

She smiled at him. "It is only wine, Tyrion." She cut her meat.

"A golden wine. A golden wine from Tyrosh. Incredibly rare. Incredibly delicious. Like you." He smiled and took another sip.

"I'm glad it pleases you. I have had interesting news."

"Have you?" He turned his attention back to his dinner.

"Yes, actually. A – friend" her eyes flicked up to him and back to her plate, "sent me a missive. At some expense, actually, because it was from a ship." She took a bite.

_A ship. A missive from a ship… a wine from Tyrosh. A friend who is not a friend._ He narrowed his eyes, chewing slowly. "Go on."

"Yes," she said, taking a large swallow of wine and setting the goblet down. "Exactly."

_We should 'not talk' like this more often._ "Sansa," he said, "I'm afraid I really do need more detail."

"Who do you know who might be on board a ship right about now, headed in the direction of Tyrosh…"

The facts were stacking up, but he wasn't there yet.

"…that someone who wishes to… acquire our patronage… would go to some lengths to inform us about…?" She glanced at him, then placidly continued her meal.

He watched her, tapping his knife on his plate. Then he froze, staring at her. She didn't even hesitate in her motions as she ate, but she smiled, knowing that he knew."No," he whispered.

She glanced at him, still smiling, and nodded.

_What happened to the nubile girl-child Joffrey tormented on a regular basis in King's Landing? She grew up, is what happened._

"Did it say where they were going to disembark?"

"Sadly, no, and the ship would be long gone by now. But your sister and the King are now long gone from Westeros."

He tapped the knife on his plate again. "Who have you told?"

She smiled. "No one, of course. I wanted to discuss it with you, first."

"Sansa, please."

"Arya. That's all."

He nodded, chewing thoughtfully. "Will she tell my father?"

Sansa sat back, gazing at him. She slowly began shaking her head. "You know, Tyrion – I really have no idea. I still can't tell why she married him."

He set down his utensils and took a series of deep swallows, finishing his goblet. "Well," he said, finally, rising, "I still say that I got the better end of the bargain."

She set her utensils down as well, took a final sip of her wine, and turned to face him. He took her hand, brushing the back of her knuckles with his thumb. He met her eyes, studying the bright blue that showed _everything_ – or nothing at all, as he had learned. "I shall take the better side of forever," he whispered, "enjoying you."

A frown appeared, a crease between her brows. "Are you certain, Tyrion? I am a murderess, after all."

He brushed her hair from her face, still studying it. "Do you plan on murdering me, my Lady Direwolf?"

She shook her head. Her fine hair spread through his fingers. "No. I just wanted… peace. And I was afraid he would either – do something horrid to you, or else…" her eyes drifted away, "…do something horrid to me." She gazed back at him. "I don't plan to make a habit of it."

He chuckled. "Well, that's good. Sansa…" he stroked the back of her head. "I'm sorry it's… started like this. But…"

"No!" She said the word with startling vehemence. Then, more quietly, "No. It wasn't your fault. Let's just… it's very nice here, isn't it?"

And suddenly she seemed quite vulnerable again, and he stepped to her and pulled her arm around him, holding her quietly. _I may not be tall. But I am a man, and I will be there for her. We have this, now._ "Yes," he whispered, "it is."

And after a bit, she settled her head against him, and he stroked her hair, and the room grew dark around them. And finally, she lifted her head again, and met his eyes.

"Are you sure?" he whispered.

Her eyes glowed, flickering, in the candlelight – tonight willing to speak, and agreeing with her when she said, "I am."

He pulled her to him, and her lips were sweet on his, so very, very sweet; and he had to keep reminding himself, _slowly, slowly, Gods – don't ruin this… _And it was almost as if _he_ were a boy again, he was so bloody _happy_ – except that he _wasn't_ a boy, he was a man, and he would guide her, one – agonizing – step at a time. His hand was in the small of her back, gently caressing it, and hers… one was still where he had placed it, behind him; but the other was sliding up his arm, behind his head, holding him to her as he kissed her lips – each of her lips, _both_ of her lips, again and again until… at last, he heard what he was waiting for. She made a tiny sound, a whisper of complaint, and he tasted her lips, opening his mouth slowly, nudging hers open as well, and kissing and suckling the top edge, the bottom edge, the corners, tasting – just a tiny bit with the very tip of his tongue.

_Oh, Gods, I am going to need some alone time after this,_ he thought, trying _very_ hard not to focus on the growing ache in his groin._ Sansa. Sansa. This is about __Sansa__._ He pulled back, adjusting his hands, his mouth, and she pulled him back to her, mouth open, hungry – _Gods, voracious – _completely unaware of what she was doing to him. He allowed himself to become more aggressive with his kissing, stroking her tongue with his own, drawing hers in with his and sucking – _Oh, seven Hells – _and then he was kissing her jaw, her ear, her neck, and her breathing was ragged as she arched away from him. He reached, supporting her – _thank the Gods she is small…_ and starting to nip as her hands were all _over_ his back and chest.

She moaned.

He straightened. _All_ of him straightened. "Sansa…" he whispered. "We… I think we probably had best…" _Gods, I must be out of my mind; but I want her never to look back with disdain when it happens._

"Tyrion…" she pulled his mouth to her again.

"Mm… Sansa. Wait."

She blinked.

"Sansa, love… there is… _nothing_… I would rather do right now…" he shook his head, "…_believe_ me. But I want you… I want you to be sure. To be ready."

"Tyrion." She said, looking him straight in the eye. "I killed a man to get us some peace. I am ready."

_Mm. Good point. Not much I can do to argue that._ He nodded. "All right. But – I also don't want…"

She twined her fingers in his hair._ "What?"_

_Gods._

"Our first time to be on our dinner table."

She gazed at him for a moment. Then she let go of his hair and nodded. "All right."

_Did that really happen? _Brienne thought – for what was probably the hundred thousandth time. _Yes. It did. Wait – is that… it IS!_ She spotted the Hand himself – fresh from his wedding chamber, no less – striding through King's Landing like a man with a purpose. She thought about Arya, stuck back in bed. _Well. Perhaps he's getting her a present. Bloody foolish of him to go out without a guard, though._ So she followed him.

She followed him through King's Landing, through the streets and by the shops, noting as she went that he glanced repeatedly up at the 'Direwolf League' flags that now hung virtually everywhere in the city. She followed him past the nicer homes – and past the merchant homes, growing more and more curious as she went – and then wound through the narrow streets past the rundown hovels of Flea Bottom. _What in the Seven Hells is he __doing__ down here?_

And then she followed him to – the sign of the Dancing Orchid, a lavender orchid upon a peach field. She wasn't familiar with the establishment; but she was familiar with the type – and combined with the fact that there was no clear _other_ label for the… facility… she drew her own conclusions. Which happened to be both dead on – and dreadfully wrong._ Tywin Lannister – at a __brothel__? _She grew indignant. _Just because Arya is injured, that doesn't give him the right… oo! _She stood straighter and straighter, growing angrier and angrier on her friend's behalf. _I am going to tell her._

_ No. Telling her will just hurt her, to no good effect._

_ I shall tell Jaime._

_ And… that will accomplish what, exactly?_

_ Fine. I shall wait for him, then. See what he says about __that__!_

And so, showing a tremendous amount of loyalty, but perhaps an equal lack of wisdom, Brienne of Tarth stood with her legs set and arms folded across the street from the Dancing Orchid – which was as good an announcement as any that someone of importance was within.


End file.
